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SONGS 

of 

CY WARMAN 




^ 



Published by 
RAND AVERY CO., BOSTON 
McLEOD & ALLEN, TORONTO 






^ 



II 



Copyright, 1911 

Rand Avery Co., 

Boston. 






©CLA286285 



CONTENTS 

SONGS 

Page 

Sapho 9 

When the Dark comes Down 10 

When She Sings 11 

When the Cows are coming Home 12 

The Sad Sea . . . 13 

You, Love 14 

Happy Folks 15 

Indiana 16 

Cupid is King op the Seas 18 

Song of a Serenader 19 

How I Love Her 21 

Heart of My Heart 21 

This Little Pig went to Market 22 

Forgotten 24 

All is Well 25 

Here Below 26 

The Joy of Love 27 

We were Deceived 28 

Woman's Silence ' . . 29 

It means so Much 30 

Little Papoose 31 

Little Wild Goose 32 

The Sea 34 

The Long, Hard Hill 35 

A Country Town 37 

Fiddle-de-dee 38 

Clickety Click 39 

Hush-a-by, Little One, Sleep 40 

The Land of Annie Laurie 41 

Constancy 42 

Ashes 43 

Morning on the Yukon 44 

Agnes, I Love Thee 45 

Whom do you Love? 46 

The Columbine 47 

Old Red Hoss Mountain 48 

The Desert Mail 50 

It cannot Be 51 

The Eyes of Lizzette 52 

" And you'll remember Me " 53 

My Little Love 54 

Nature Songs 55 

Hoss Sense 55 

An Antique Love Song 56 

Love among the Mountains 57 

Non Committal 58 

Mother and I 59 

An' de Watahmelon's ripen' all Aroun' 61 

Because we Love 62 

Sweet Marie . 63 

The Convent 64 

Song of a Sound Sailor 65 



CONTENTS 



THOUGHTFUL RHYMES 

Page 

Will the Lights be White? 69 

Alaska 70 

This Life is Good 71 

Hereafter 72 

"All's Well with the World" 74 

The Harvest 75 

The Rise and Fall of Creede 76 

The Soul of the Saskatchewan 78 

The Bull Team 79 

The Wreck at Cabaza 80 

Two Soldiers 81 

Sangre de Christo 82 

There is no Death 83 

Under the Willows 84 

Little Theresa, the Waif 86 

My Friend — the Prospector 87 

In the Twilight 88 

Where Women don't Go 89 

We Never Know 90 

God is Love 91 

Give us this Day 92 

Waiting for the Wild Goose 93 

Transportation 94 

To-morrow 95 

" Give me not Riches " 96 

Grief 96 

Memorial Day 97 

The Stage Coach 98 

The Cry of a Shipwrecked Soul 99 

The Widower 101 

The Isolation of a Child 102 

The West 103 

The Canon of the Grand 104 

In Memory 105 

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi 106 

Where the Flowers Talk 107 

When we go off and Die 108 

Lo, the Poor Indian 109 

Worrisome Jim Ill 

Bad on the Bird 112 

Gentle Annie 113 

The Way we Walked 114 

The City Choir 115 

We ain't had no Spring 116 

The Death of a Dew-drop 116 

The Printer 117 

Jealousy 117 

The Flyer 118 

Engine .007 119 

i ought to be better 123 

The Princess Inginita 124 

The Passing of the Locomotive — A Reverie .... 125 



CONTENTS 



Page 

By-and-By 126 

I would Know my Native Land 127 

On Marshall Pass 128 

Period! 130 

The All Red Indian 131 

The Sundown Sea 133 

The Cry of a Wounded Heart 134 

Local Color 134 

is it really any good? 135 

At the Rainbow's Tip 138 

A Toast 138 

To Baby Asleep 139 

A Reporter's Report 140 

Summer's Gone 145 

The Poet and the Publisher 146 

The First Christmas Gift 146 

Adown the Dusky Dell 147 

Misunderstood 148 

Gone 149 



CITIES I HAVE SEEN 

Colorado Springs 153 

Jerusalem 154 

Salt Lake 155 

In Montreal 155 

Cheyenne 156 

Cairo 158 

San Francisco, 1894 159 

Creede 160 

Denver 161 

In Saint Paul 162 

Cripple Creek 163 

At Jaffa 164 



MORE OR LESS PERSONAL 

A Tribute to Dr. Drummond . 167 

To a Photograph — B. W 168 

Pauline 168 

Robert Elliot 169 

To Mrs. for Charity 170 

Bill and Hy 171 

Jiu-Jitzu vs. Hockey 172 

Friendship 173 

To Julian Ralph, in China 175 

To J. W. S. . 175 

Him 176 

Henry Prew 176 

Father J. C 177 



Songs 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



SAPHO 

Soul of Sapho ! if to-night, 
When my boat is drifting near 

Your fair island, spirit bright; 
If I sing, and if you hear, 

From your island in the sea, 
Soul of Sapho, signal me. 

Soul of Sapho ! they have said 
That your hair, tho' not of gold, 

Made a halo for your head; 

And your eyes, I have been told, 

Were like stars. O ! from the sea, 
Soul of Sapho, speak to me. 

Soul of Sapho, awake, awake, 
Wake and tune your harp again; 

While the foaming billows break 
Let your song sweep o'er the main; 

From your island in the sea, 
Soul of Sapho, sing to me. 



[91 



SONGS OF CY WARM AN 



WHEN THE DARK COMES DOWN 

Queen of my heart, when the dark comes down, 
When the lingering light in the red, warm west 
Glows faintly and fades over tower and town, 
A new light burns in my happy breast. 
I know it is morning wherever thou art, 
Queen of my heart ! 

Queen of my heart, when the day is drear, 
And I take my scourge for the deeds I've done, 
The dark clouds scatter when you draw near, 
A rainbow smiles on the setting sun. 
There's always a rainbow wherever thou art, 
Queen of my heart ! 

Queen of my heart, when the roses die, 

And the low winds waltz with the eddying leaves, 

We know a happiness, you and I, 

Though the raindrops drip from the drooping 

eaves. 
I know it is summer, wherever thou art, 
Queen of my heart ! 



[10] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



WHEN SHE SINGS 

When she sings the song birds listen, 
While the pearly dewdrops glisten 
On the hedge and on the hawthorn, 
Trembling, poised on outspread wings; 
And at night the moon swings nearer, 
And the stars are hushed to hear her, 
E'en the nightingale is silent, 
Awed and silent when she sings. 

When she sings the withered grasses 
Catch the low wind as it passes, 

Whispering, hush, and hushing hearken 
While the dread of death takes wings; 
And the summer roses, dying, 
Smile one last sweet smile, and sighing, 
Fold in peace their perfumed petals, 
Soothed and solaced, when she sings. 



[11] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



WHEN THE COWS ARE COMING HOME 

Come, my love, and let us wander 
'Cross the hills and over yonder; 
We shall find the tangled trails we used to 
roam; 
Where the distant sea was moaning 
And the honey bees were droning 

In the twilight when the cows were coming 
home. 

Hear the tingle, tongle, tangle of the bells, 
As they dingle on the downs and in the dells; 

O'er the meadow in the gloam 

See the cows are coming home; 
Hear the dingle, dongle, dangle of the bells. 

O, the sweet forget-me-never, 
I should like to live forever, 

Never more than two months either way from 
June ; 
Where the cherry blooms were falling 
And the silver bells were calling 

Through the twilight of a summer's afternoon. 



[12] 



SONGS OF CY WABMAN 



THE SAD SEA 

" What makes the sea so sad, mother?" 

Whispered a little child. 
" Why do the billows sigh and break, 

And why are the waves so wild?" 
" The rivers run down to the sea 

With all their grief, my lad, 
And flood the sea with their misery, 

And that's why the sea is sad. 

" The Hudson goes with Gotham's woes, 

And Paris chokes the Seine ; 
The Danube blue and the dark Thames, too, 

All hurrying to the main; 
Losing the song of the running rill, 

But keeping all that's bad, 
They flood the sea with their misery, 

And that's why the sea is sad." 



[13] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



YOU, LOVE 

(A Duet) 

" When the rose in the East shows the long night 
is gone" — 

" I wake and watch for you." 
"When you open your eyes, love, to welcome 
the dawn' 7 — 

"Darling, they look for you." 
"Through the long summer day, in the sun's 

golden gleam, 
When the night shadows fall and the silver stars 

beam, 
When you lie a-sleeping, of whom do you 
dream?" 

"Darling, of you, of you." 

Chorus 

Of you, love, my true love, 

When bright stars are beaming, 
Of you I am dreaming, 

Of you, love, my true love, 
My darling, of you, of you. 

" If you had but one life to live, where would you 
live?" 

"Love, I would live near you." 
[14] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



"Had the gods but one gift, what would you 
have them give?" 

" O, I would ask for you." 
"If you had the wings of a dove, would you 

breast 
The wind of the East or the wind of the West, 
And when you're a- weary, 0, where would you 
rest?" 

"Darling, near you, near you." 

Chorus 

Near you, love, my true love, 

And when I am weary 

Of wandering, my dearie, 
Near you, love, my true love, 

My darling, near you, near you. 



HAPPY FOLKS 

Lucky beggars of Barbados, 
Have no trouble — wear no clothes; 
Want a banquet, they build a dish 
Of sweet potatoes and flying fish; 
And that I reckon's the reason why 
The girls are sweet and the boys are fly. 



[15] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



INDIANA 

Hear the boastful bugles screaming high above 

the rolling cheers, 
See the Hoosier Gov'ner beaming on his valiant 

volunteers ; 
While beneath a spreading chestnut, where the 

somber shadows lie, 
A soldier and his sweetheart say good-bye. 
" Forget? I'll ne'er forget you, love, and you'll 

forget me not, 
Because I'll never let you in the land that God 

forgot." 
Now he vows with lifted gauntlet : " By the stars 

that stud the blue, 
I'll be faithful to my country and to you." 

" I'll come back to Indiana when this wicked war 

is o'er, 
I'll come back to Indiana and I'll leave you, 

love, no more; 
We shall walk and talk together here beneath 

our native sky, 
I'll come back to Indiana, by-and-by." 

We were scouting in an island on a summer's 
afternoon, 

In that windless hush that harbingers the trop- 
ical typhoon, 

[16] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



When we walked into an ambuscade and made a 

final stand 
Where we fought the Filipinos, hand to hand. 
I could see our banner streaming, I could hear 

the lusty cheers, 
I could see our good swords gleaming 'mongst 

the foeman's rusty spears; 
When a naked, blood-mad 'Pino whipped around 

to rear and thrust, 
And our valiant Hoosier captain bit the dust. 

* * * 

" Take me back to Indiana, boys, don't leave me 

here to rot 
On the bogs and moors and marshes in the land 

that God forgot." 
Then he lay and stared in silence up against the 

steely sky: 
" Take me back to Indiana when I die." 

(Softly) 

"Take me back to Indiana" — he was groping 

for our hands. 
" Take me back to Indiana — there's a girl in 

old Vincennes — 
O, it grieves me sore that sorrow soon shall dim 

her azure eye; 
Take me back to Indiana by-and-by." 



[17] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



CUPID IS KING OF THE SEAS 

When the rain falls and the snow palls, 

I can still see the sunshine above, 
Tho' my sky's drear, in your eyes, dear, 

I am reading my rainbow of love. 
O'er the dark tides safe my barque rides 

For Cupid is King of the Seas; 
When the wind cries my heart sighs : 

Eloise. 

When the gun peals and the sun reels 

And the hushed world is holding its breath, 
When the horns blare where the slain stare 

And the Cannon are bellowing death, 
Still our flag streams where the shell screams 

For Cupid is King of the Seas. 
When the storm dies my heart sighs : 

Eloise. 



[18] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



SONG OF A SERENADER 

One night beneath my window, when the stars 

were bright above 
The music of a mandolin, blent with a lay of love, 
Came stealing through the stillness like the 

balmy breath of spring; 
I opened up my window-blinds and heard a 

singer sing : 

" Cupid is an archer, and his arrow's ever set, 
And swift and sure the arrow flies, as from a 

falconet; 
His bow is ever trusty and his aim is ever true. 
Be wary of the archer when his arrow's aimed 

at you!" 

At first I only lingered there to listen for a while. 
And thought the singer only sang the hours to 

beguile. 
My heart began to tremble with the touch of 

every string. 
I opened wide my window-blinds and heard the 

singer sing : 

" Cupid is an archer, and his arrow's ever set, 
And swift and sure the arrow flies, as from a 

falconet; 
His bow is ever trusty and his aim is ever true. 

[19] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



Be wary of the archer when his arrow's aimed 
at you!" 

The weary day I'm waiting for the twilight 

shades to fall, 
And where the tangled woodland waves I hear 

the lone dove call. 
The song of running brooklets and a thousand 

birds a- wing 
My eager ears will hear not, when my love begins 

to sing: 

" Cupid is an archer, and his arrow's ever set, 
And swift and sure the arrow flies, as from a 

falconet ; 
His bow is ever trusty and his aim is ever true. 
Be wary of the archer when his arrow's aimed at 

you!" 



[20] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



HOW I LOVE HER 

Go, laughing, leaping, romping rill, 

Go where my love is straying, 
And, in the pools when you are still, 

Then list to what she's saying; 
And with the sunny, summer skies 

Of azure arched above her, 
Show her her own angelic eyes, 

And tell her how I love her. 

Go, gentle winds, soft, sighing winds, 

Go where my love is sleeping, 
And be about her window blinds 

And through the curtains creeping; 
Weave in the wimples of her hair 

The perfume of the clover, 
Caress her face, so sweet and fair, 

And tell her how I love her. 



HEART OF MY HEART 

0, darling ! the first pale crocus peeps 

Through a crack in the crusted snow; 
Awake and awaken our love that sleeps, 

Our love of the long ago. 
And 0, my soul, when the world is fair 

And sweet with the smell of June : 
Ah, little I dreamed you would cease to care — 

Heart of my heart so soon. 

[21] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



THIS LITTLE PIG WENT TO MARKET 

The moon looked down on Denver one matchless 
summer night 
And bathed the earth in splendor, a flood of 
silver light 
Suffused the hills and valley s, all warp't in sweet 
repose ; 
We wandered near a garden, I mind I smelled 
a rose. 
We rested in the garden, I and my heart's 
delight : 
The moon beamed down on Denver that 
scented summer night. 

The rain came down in Denver one blowy au- 
tumn night, 
One bleak night in November, and blurred the 
tower light. 
I told my love a story, the grate glowed warm 
and red; 
She toyed with her fair fingers, then slowly 
shook her head. 
She kindly drew her curtain to give my going 
light; 
Oh, how it rained in Denver that black 
November night ! 



[22] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



The snow came down in Denver, one windless 
winter night, 
And robed the earth in splendor, in splendid 
robe of white; 
I told the same old story, she did not shake her 
head, 
But toyed with her fair fingers. I took her 
hand and said: 
"And this pig went to market, and this pig 
stayed at home. 
This little pig had roast beef, this little pig 
had none." 

* * * 

Eight years ! The snow is falling to-night. Not 
far away 
I hear a baby calling and hear its mother say : 
"And this pig went to market, and this pig 
stayed at home. 
This little pig had roast beef, this little pig 
had none." 
Down past my study window the snow flakes 
flutter white, 
Just as they did in Denver that windless winter 
night. 



[23] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



FORGOTTEN 

Far out in the West-land, where the sun goes down, 
Dwelt a little maiden in a mountain town. 
Oft I used to see her — oft I used to say : 
"I will sing a love song to the maid some day." 

Drearily the years dragged ; she was very young ; 
I was much her senior when the song was sung ; 
Still, I thought a teardrop trembled in her eye 
When she stood a-tiptoe kissing me good-by. 

Far away I wandered, where the breakers roar, 
Where the mighty ships come from a foreign 

shore ; 
How my poor heart hungered, when the sun 

went down, 
For the little maiden in the mountain town. 

Years: the city lured me with a thousand 

charms, 
And I soon grew weary of my idle arms. 
Myriads of maidens, hair of golden brown — 
I forgot the maiden in the mountain town. 

Wretch! how oft her pillow has been wet with 

tears; 
How she must have mourned me all these weary 

years ! 
Sitting with her sorrow 'neath the cedar there, 
Weaving little wild flowers in her sunny hair. 
[24] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



Now, her tear-stained face did haunt me so 

to-day, 
That I turned for surcease to the matinee. 
Lo ! My mountain maid, with new and sunnier 

hair, 
Sans her sorrow played as leading lady there. 



ALL IS WELL 

Slowly my native shore sinks in the sea, 
O, must we meet no more, Vonda Marie? 

Lo, now life's summer dies 

There where my treasure lies; 
God give you sunny skies, Vonda Marie. 

Slowly the dark ship ploughs deep in the waves, 
Over the armored bows Old Ocean laves; 
Here comes a screaming shell, 
There goes the midnight bell — 
God watches — all is well, Vonda Marie. 



[25] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



HERE BELOW 

You can talk about your honey- 
Suckle home beyond the sky, 

Your sun-kissed over yonder, 
And your blooming by-and-by; 

Of the silver waves that warble 
Up against the golden shore ; 

Of your heathery hereafter, 
And your endless evermore, 

But if you've a lot of rapture 
And would like to let it go, 

Just sift a little sunshine 
In the shadows here below. 

Don't cluster up your kisses 

For my cold and clammy brow. 
This life is long and lonely — 

Come and let me feel them now. 
It's all right to lay up treasures 

In the realms where they won't rust; 
And to figure on the future, 

And to try to put your trust 
In Him who made the Universe; 

But it won't hurt, I know, 
To sift a little sunshine 

In the shadows here below. 



[26] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



THE JOY OF LOVE 

Oh, how I love my love; such laughing eyes — 
Sweet, dreamy eyes, like little sun-kist seas, 

And face flushed like the west when daylight dies, 
Whose breath is like a summer-scented breeze. 

Where'er she walks the birds sing in their 
bowers, 
And mock her voice, melodious and sweet ; 
She steals the peace and perfume of the flowers 
Whose little leaves are crushed beneath her 
feet. 

'Twas not the beauty of her face alone, 

Nor yet her form, my willing heart that stole, 

But sweeter still, the light of love that shone 
From out her eyes, reflected from her soul. 

Long winter nights we watch the glowing grate; 

Her low, sweet laugh makes music like the 
streams 
That flow through forests ; when I leave her late 

'Tis only to return to her in dreams. 

How sweet to love, to have the heart enslaved, 

Your future in a woman's hands ! What bliss 
To know each day life's sweetest sweets are 
saved 
By woman's soft caress or tender kiss. 

[27] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



If I could pray a prayer that God would hear 
And answer, I would ask the powers above, 

That all mankind upon this fading sphere 
Be once allowed to taste the joy of love. 



WE WERE DECEIVED 

A wild Juanita, black and tan, 

Rode into Wingate on a mule; 
Met a Chicago traveling man: 
Who told her, as a drummer can, 

That she was wildly beautiful. 
She smiled, she hoped, she lived ! Alas ! 
She looked into a looking-glass. 

"You are a poet," my friend said; 

"Your fame has flashed from coast to coast. 
You will be read when Riley's dead, 
And Field has faded. Yes!" he said, 

" If not before. You're Shakespeare's ghost." 
But now, I sympathize with her, 
The maid; I've seen the publisher. 



[28] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



WOMAN'S SILENCE 

'Tain't no use to woo a woman when she thinks 

she wants to talk; 
'Cause a woman's only human, and you'd better 

take a walk 
'Till she simmers down and settles; when a 

woman's on her ear, 
What she has to say in silence is the pleasantest 

to hear. 

'Tain't no use to try to crowd her, 'cause she's 

bound to have her say; 
You talk loud, and she'll talk louder; it is best 

to break away, 
When she's in the upper octaves, better wander 

from her view; 
For the song she sings in silence is the sweetest 

song for you. 

But you can coax her and caress her, and she'll 
melt and run to you 

Like the 'lasses on your pancakes in your boy- 
hood used to do. 

If you have a sorrow tell her, then just watch 
the teardrops fall, 

And the sighs she sighs in silence are the saddest 
sighs of all. 



[29] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



When you ask a girl to marry, and she hangs on 
what you've said, 

While your hope hangs on her answer, and the 
moon hangs overhead; 

When you seem to see the thought she thinks, 
and kinder feel her fall, 

That's her answer, said in silence, 'tis the sweet- 
est word of all. 



IT MEANS SO MUCH 

Don't think me mercenary, pray, 
Because I fain would sell this rhyme, 

Or any rhyme; but every day 

When I sit down to write, each time, 

I've this assurance, all the while, 

■ Twill make at least one woman smile. 

E'en though it may be hard to guess, 
Unless to dally with the muse, 

Just why we write; some will excuse 
And some will call it meaningless; 

But, Oh, it means so much to her, 
My golden-haired stenographer. 



[30] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



LITTLE PAPOOSE 

Little papoose in a wicker of reed, 

Under the willow bough swings, 
Catching the music where over the mead 

Rippling the rivulet sings. 
Sings where the fairest of flowers are found, 
Sings where the summer is all the year around, 
Here where the beauties of nature abound, 
Rippling the rivulet sings. 

Refrain 

Swing, swing, little papoose, 

Gitchie will mind you 
Swing, swing, little papoose 

Mite hie won't find you, 
Swing, swing, little papoose, 
Husha, my brown baby, swing. 

Agate and onyx and malachite beads, 
Plata that's ribboned and rolled; 

Mocassins made from the bark of the reeds, 
Glittering garters of gold. 

Catching the sound with his delicate ear, 

Catching the croon when his mother is near. 

Hearing the hoofs of the galloping deer, 
Bounding away o'er the wolde. 



[31] 



SONGS OF CY WARM AN 



LITTLE WILD GOOSE 

A wild goose lit in the Lake of Bays, lighter than 

the floating foam; 
She swam around for days and days looking for 
a summer home. 
She found a place and she made a nest, 
Screened from the wind of the wide North 

West 
And she warmed her eggs with eider breast, 
Cosy little summer home. 

A grey goose gave her things to eat, gathered 

from the floating foam; 
She gave him love and life was sweet, mating 
in their summer home. 
And there they lived as man and wife 
And nothing knew of care or strife, 
'Till beneath her breast she felt new life 
Waking in her summer home. 

The baby geese began to swim, floating on the 

floating foam ; 
Just little laps from her to him, — happy little 
summer home. 
But one of them got up to fly 
And he soared away to the sunny sky, 
Then the mother goose began to cry : 
"O! little wild goose, come home." 
[32] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



He bathed his back in the summer sun, high up 

in the azure dome, 
Above a bad man with a gun — " ! little wild 
goose, come home." 
He raised his voice and he tried to sing 
Such a quaint crude song, poor little thing ! 
Then tumbled down with a broken wing, 
"0! little wild goose, come home." 

The mother wild goose saw him fall and flutter in 

the floating foam ; 
The wounded wild goose heard her call, "O! 
little wild goose, come home." 
He knew which way he ought to go 
And he tried to swim, but he swam so slow, 
For the wounded wing now pained him so, 
"0! little wild goose, come home." 

The wild goose soared across the lake, high above 

the floating foam ; 
It seemed to her her heart would break; "O! 
little wild goose, come home." 
Then the baby caught his mother's tail 
And across the lake the two set sail; 
Thus towed he rode with a Gitche gale 
And the little wild goose went home. 



[33] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



She folded up his wounded wing, floating on the 

floating foam ; 
And said, " Don't cry, poor little thing, little 
wild goose is home." 
And when the baby goose could stand 
And flap his wings on the shifting sand, 
He soared away to a sunny land, 
And the little wild goose went home. 



THE SEA 

If I had too much money, money that I couldn't 

use, 
I'd spring a new philanthrophy that would be 

joyful news 
To seven million babies (if such a thing might be) 
Whom I'd round up and I'd lead down to the sea, 
And let them cool their kick-kicks in the sea. 

And with them all lined up there and holding 

hand to hand, 
Their happy faces shining like sunlight on the 

sand; 
Angels would ope their windows (if such a thing 

might be) 
To see so many, sinless, by the sea 
And watch them cool their kick-kicks in the 

sea. 
[34] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



THE LONG HARD HILL 

They were standing in the sunlight 

Of the summer time of life ; 
She was still without a husband, 

He was waiting for a wife. 
And her cheeks were rich and rosy 

And her lips were lucious red, 
So he pressed her dimpled fingers 

As he looked at her and said, 
As they stood there in the heather 

Where the road had crossed the rill : 
"May we not fare together 

Up this long, hard hill?" 

Now her hand began to tremble 

And her eyes were full of tears 
As she trained them on the road that 

Wound away among the years; 
But she had no voice to answer 

Him; she could not understand, 
For the future lay before her 

Like a far-off fairy land. 
There was sunlight on the heather, 

There was music in the rill, 
As they went away together 

Up the long, hard hill. 



[35] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



Oftentimes the way was sunny, 

Other times 'twas full of lures, 
But the love that had come to them 

Was the true love that endures. 
Though the bony brow is wrinkled, 

Though the raven lock be gray, 
Yet the road might have been rougher 

Had she gone the other way. 
Now the frost is on the heather 

And the snow is on the rill, 
And they're coasting down the short side 

Of the long, hard hill. 



[36] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



A COUNTRY TOWN 

I like the freedom of a country town, 

The air and the open of the country; 
You can tell when the sun goes up and down 

Out in the God-made country. 
The creeks are clear and the skies are blue, 
The hearts of the people are kind and true 
An' folks do just as they want to do, 
Folks that are livin' in the country. 

I like the color of a country town, 

Almost the color of the country; 
Farmer's wife in a country gown, 

Bringin' in things from the country. 
Water-melons an' sweet nut-megs, 
Country butter an' country eggs, 
Country girls an' chickens with plump hard legs, 

All comin' in from the country. 



[37] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



FIDDLE-DE-DEE 

The Irishman, Dutchman and Frenchman in me 
Are always contending — their purposes cross ; 

Wherever I journey there journey the three, 
Each claiming predominant right to be boss 

Of the big job of Life; they cannot agree, 

This Irishman, Dutchman and Frenchman in me. 

Says the Dutchman: "Get up once and harvest 
the hay 
Before the sunshines — would you be yet a 
tramp 
For the rest of your life? There will come a wet 
day; 
Put something aside." The Hibernian scamp, 
Says, tugging my sleeve, with a wink of his eye : 
"Be 'asy — ye're Irish — ye'll always be dhry." 

"Par ici," the Frenchman calls, leading the way, 
We walk where the South Wind is cradling 
Spring. 

We paint pleasant pictures the long Summer day, 
And gather primroses, and loiter and sing. 

And so, we do nothing but fiddle-de-dee, 

This Irishman, Dutchman and Frenchman in me. 



[38] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



CLICKETY CLICK 

Clickety click ! as out of town 

The engine picks her way; 
Where barefoot children, sunburnt brown, 

In dusty alleys play. 
All the summer, early and late, 

And in the autumn drear, 
A maiden stands at the orchard gate, 

And waves at the engineer. 

He likes to look at her face so fair, 

And her homely country dress; 
She likes to look at the man up there 

At the front of the fast express. 
Clickety click ! though miles apart, 

To her he is always near, 
And she feels the click of her happy heart 

For the heart of the engineer. 

Over the river and down the dell, 

Beside the running stream, 
She hears the clang of the engine-bell — 

The whistle's startled scream. 
Clickety click ! An open switch — 

Onward the engine flies. 
Clickety click ! They're in the ditch ! 

Oh, angels ! hide her eyes ! 



T391 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



Clickety click, and down the track 

The train will dash to-day; 
But what of the ribbons of white and black 

The engine wears away; 
Clickety click ! Oh, worlds apart — 

The maiden hangs her head. 
There is no click in the maiden's heart — 

The engineer is dead. 



HUSH-A-BY, LITTLE ONE, SLEEP 

Nature is sinking to peaceful repose, 

Hush-a-by, little one, sleep; 
Sweetly the dewdrop's asleep on the rose, 

Hush-a-by, little one, sleep. 
Heaven shield father wherever he be, 
Whether on land or the billowy sea, 
And bring him back to his baby and me — 

Hush-a-by, little one, sleep. 

Lightly the ripples play over the rill, 

Hush-a-by, little one, sleep; 
Singing the wild rose to sleep on the hill, 

Hush-a-by, little one, sleep. 
Softly the katydid sings in the vines, 
Up from the lowlands the murmuring winds 
Steal through the stillness to play with the 
pines — 

Hush-a-by, little one, sleep. 
[40] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



THE LAND OF ANNIE LAURIE 

Where the mists of London come not 

To obscure the Scottish sky; 
Where they call a maid a "Lassie," 

And they all say "dee" for die; 
In my hands I hold the heather, 

And my feet are in the ferns 
Of the Land of Annie Laurie 

And the home of Bobbie Burns. 

Now I put the hills behind me, 

And o'er the ocean gray, 
I gaze out toward the Occident 

With tear- wet eyes to-day; 
To earth's mainland — America — 

My tired spirit turns 
From the Land of Annie Laurie, 

And the home of Bobbie Burns. 



[41] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



CONSTANCY 

When the ringdove is calling 

Down the woodland, little darling, 
When the hills have turned green 

And all nature is new; 
When the gentle rain, falling 

O'er this good land, little darling, 
Makes the old earth grow glad, 

Then my heart yearns for you. 

When the brown birds are winging 

O'er the moorland, little darling, 
And the gray gulls are blown 

With the mist o'er the blue, 
Then I long for the warm clasp 

Of your hand, little darling; 
When this old earth seems sad, 

Then my heart yearns for you. 



[421 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



ASHES 

Alone, on the birdless barrens, 

Alone by a southern sea, 
The ghosts of the days that have vanished 

Come scurrying back to me. 

Then a face on my memory flashes 
Like the flash of a falling star, 

When I'm flicking the fading ashes 
From the end of a good cigar. 

Life's spring, with its buds of promise, 
Life's summer, with rose of June; 

But the buds, they burst so early, 
And the roses die o'er soon. 

A rustle of silk and laces, 

The wind of a passing car, 
Then gray are the once glad faces, 

Like the ash of my good cigar. 



[43] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



MORNING ON THE YUKON 

'Twas morning on the Yukon : 

The Yukon winds were fair. 
Sunshine in the maiden's eyes ; 

Sunlight on her hair : 
Sunlight on the ripples, 

Where the White Horse rapids roll. 
They found a broken toll-gate, 

And the maiden paid the toll. 

The gate had been abandoned. 

To the man 'twas not amiss. 
He fixed the rate of tollage, 

And the maiden paid a kiss. 
The sunlight kissed the ripples, 

Where the White Horse rapids roll, 
Beside the broken toll-gate, 

Where the maiden paid the toll. 

He plucked a bunch of wild flowers, 

And matched them with her eyes : 
He matched them with her ribbon, 

And matched them with the skies. 
A willow arched the pathway. 

He whispered, " O, my soul, 
The fairies made this toll-gate, 

And the maiden paid the toll. 



[44] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



AGNES, I LOVE THEE 
(After Hiene) 
I stooped and wrote upon the sand 
Along the shore, with trembling hand, 
These words that she might understand : 

Agnes, I love thee. 

I watched the gentle waves wash o'er 
These lines that lay upon the shore, 
And leave them fairer than before : 
Agnes, I love thee. 

And so our love, from day to day 
Grew stronger, better every way, 
Until at last I dared to say: 
Agnes, I love thee. 

Alas, the sea got full one day 
And came ashore and washed away 
These lines that near the water lay: 
Agnes, I love thee. 

I climbed upon a mountain high, 
Plucked a charred snag, wrote on the sky, 
Above the waters high and dry: 
Agnes, I love thee. 

"I'd like to see some sloppy sea," 
Said I, " slide up this canopy 
And monkey with my motto, see? 
Agnes, I love thee. 



)} 



[45] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



WHOM DO YOU LOVE? 

" Whom do you love, my love?" she said, 

As I bent my face above her; 
And I tried to calm her and held her head, 
And again in the same sweet voice she said : 

"Whom do you love, my lover?" 

" Look in your heart to-night and see 

If there is a shadow in it, 
A shadow of a thought that is not of me, 
And tell me truly if there should be — 

Whom do you love this minute?" 

" Whom do you love? " — and her trembling hand 

Left wandering caresses 
Upon my face, and all the land 
Was lit with love, and the night wind fanned 

Her brow and shook her tresses. 

" A woman's love is a priceless prize, 

And if you should want to win it" — 
And again I looked and to my surprise, 
I saw two tears in her deep, dark eyes : 
"Whom do you love this minute?" 

" Whom do you love?" — and I caught the swell 

Of her breast her grief had given, 
And I touched her lips, and I smelled the smell 
Of the passion flower and the Asphodel, 

And earth was changed to heaven. 
[46] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



" To me there's just one world, my dear, 

And just two people in it, 
And now to-night as we stand here 
And I hold your hand have not a fear, 

For I love you every minute." 



THE COLUMBINE 

Sweet Marie, here's a columbine, 

The summer can surely spare it. 
See! Here's a delicate twig to twine, 
To braid in this beautiful hair of thine. 
Sweet Marie, here's a columbine — 

Take it, my queen, and wear it ! 

Waved by the wind in the summer time ; 

Wet by the summer showers; 
Blown in the balm of this beautiful clime, 
Over our heads where the hills are rime ; 
Waved by the winds in the summer time — 

Fairest of forest flowers. 

And I have brought you this flower so fair, 
Plucked from the hills above you, 

To weave in the waves of your beautiful hair, 

Or wear in your breast where the love songs are. 

I have brought you this boutonniere — 
Take it, because I love you. 

[47] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



OLD RED HOSS MOUNTAIN 

I've been to Red Hoss Mountain, where Field 

once dwelt and wrote ; 
I've seen the Place de Casey, but Casey's table 

d'hote 
Is gone ; and so is Casey. A solitary pine 
The fires have spared now shadows the Gosh-all- 

Hemlock Mine. 

There's not a cabin standing, so that a man may say, 
" The conversazzhyony in this abode held sway." 
Aye, everything has perished save earth and sky 

and space; 
The bard of Red Hoss Mountain is gone to his 

own place. 

The mines are all abandoned, the rain-washed 

trails are dim; 
But where are all the people who tramped these 

trails with him? [ a go, 

And where are all the actors he staged here long 
When magpies, "like winged shadows, were 

fluttering to and fro"? 

The trees that made the forest have fallen, one 

by one, 
Until Old Red Hoss Mountain lies bare beneath 

the sun; 

[48] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



Yet, in the deathlike stillness that hangs upon 

the air, 
I love to sit and fancy I feel his presence there. 

Sweet soul ! He knew a heartache if e'en a robin 

cried, 
Then how he must have sorrowed when Martha's 

baby died; 
When strong, rough men stood weeping who had 

not wept for years ; 
With Martha's heart nigh breaking and Sorry 

Tom in tears. 

* * * 

The brook that sang so " lonesome-like, an' loit- 
ered on its way" 

Is singing just as softly and lonesome-like to-day. 

One pine above the hemlock and just one willow 
weeps 

Down in the ragged canyon where "Martha's 
younket" sleeps. 



[49] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



THE DESERT MAIL 

When your feet have strayed from the everglade 

To the shore of a shipless sea, [you're lost 
When the bar you've crossed and at length 

In its hushed immensity; 
When you search the wild, with a silence piled 

Waist deep, for the desert trail, 
There's a distant roar like a sea ashore, 

That's the moan of the desert mail. 

Through the racing years there the engineers 

Sit close to the cabin pane, 
While they urge their steeds where the white 
trail leads 

Through the land of Little Rain; 
Then out behind, on the desert wind, 

Blown back like a bridal veil, 
Far, dim and gray like the milky way, 

Floats the dust of the desert mail. 

When the gaunt wolves howl where the spirits 
prowl — 

The ghosts of the desert's dead, 
And the living, lost, where their trails have crossed 

Mill 'round, while the sun paints red 
The western skies, as the long day dies 

And the stars shine dim and pale; 
There's a beacon fair on the desert there — 

That's the light of the desert mail. 
[50] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



IT CANNOT BE 

The dying lips of a dear friend 

At parting spoke to me, 
Saying : " Wheresoe'er your path may trend 

There ever I shall be. 

"Go walk where over Egypt's sand 

The burning simoons blow. 
Or in Alaska's sunless land, 

Your wake my wings shall know. 

" When winter nights are long and dark 

I'll lead you by the hand, 
And when the waves beat on your bark 

Will beacon you to land." 

He died. I watched his spirit go 

Across death's darkening sea : 
He came not back, and now I know 

Of things that cannot be. 



[51] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



THE EYES OF LIZZETTE 

The eyes of Lizzette were like miniature seas, 
With ripples that laugh and willows that weep 

On the shore; where the low-bending boughs of 
the trees 
Deepen and soften the shadows that creep 

At night, near the water-edge. Can I forget 

The far-away, ocean-like eyes of Lizzette? 

Dear eyes of Lizzette ! I shall see them no more, 
They are curtained in sleep — she is gone, she 

is gone, 
With her beautiful eyes to the evergreen shore ; 
Death winged her away 'twixt the dusk and 

the dawn. 
There's a mound on the mountain-side where we 

first met, 
And the columbine blows o'er the eyes of 

Lizzette. 



[52] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



"AND YOU'LL REMEMBER ME 7 ' 

One evening, as the sun went down 

Among the golden hills 
And silent shadows, soft and brown 

Crept over vales and rills, 
I watched the dusky bats a-wing 

Dip down the dusky lea; 
Hearkening, heard a maiden sing : 

"And you'll remember me." 

" When other lips and other hearts," 

Came drifting through the trees; 
" In language whose excess imparts," 

Was borne upon the breeze. 
Ah ! love is sweet and hope is strong 

And life's a sunny sea, 
A woman's soul is in her song; 

"And you'll remember me." 

Still rippling from the throbbing throat, 

With joy akin to pain, 
There seemed a tear in every note, 

A sob in every strain; 
Soft as the twilight shadows creep 

Across the listless lea, 
The singer sang her love to sleep 

With, "You'll remember me." 



[53] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



MY LITTLE LOVE 

My little love, the livelong day 

I've waited, toiled and dreamed 
And wondered if I'd meet you here, 

And, sweet, at times it seemed 
That all my life's light would go out 

Into a waste so drear, 
If, when the shadows fell about, 

I failed to find you here. 

Ah, surely there's a lesson 

To be learned in love like this; 
Naught, save the hand of heaven, 

Dear, could bring such boundless bliss. 
Not that I love my Maker less; 

His world is made more bright 
When I can feel your fond caress 

As we sit here to-night. 



[54] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



NATURE SONGS 

Tyrolian tomcat, every time 

You scale an icy wall, 
Know that the higher up you climb 

The further you may fall. 

And you, O summer birds, who win£ 
The air the summer long, 

Know that the merrier you sing 
The more we'll miss your song. 



HOSS SENSE 

When the pheasant stops his drumming, 
When the autumn's cyclone's coming, 

When the gaunt gray wolf of winter is let loose 
In the Injin Summer : Sonny, 
Wouldn't you give ready money 

For the wings and for the wisdom of a goose? 

When the hoss that you are riding 
Smells the cinnamon in hiding, 

When he wheels and snorts and gives his head 
a toss, 
When he tries so hard to tell you 
That the cinnamon can smell you — 
Don't you wish you had the hoss sense of a hoss? 

[55] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



AN ANTIQUE LOVE SONG 

My lady fair, with eyes and hair, 

And things to write about, 
Elected to play I was going astray, 

She wanted to try me out, out, out; 

She wanted to try me out. 

"Our love is dead/' my lady said, 

And toyed with her hands and sighed, 

Yet I knew that she knew that my heart was true 
And the beautiful lady lied, lied, lied; 
And the beautiful lady lied. 

" The heart of gold will not grow cold, 

Nor tire with time," I said, 
"And the love that is sure will ever endure; 

Nay, darling, our love is not dead, dead, 
dead, 

Nay, darling, our love's not dead." 

"The love that's right will still burn bright, 
Tho' the morning stars grow pale, 

And the lover that's true will sorrow with you, 
And go singing with you to jail, jail, jail, 
And go singing with you to jail." 



[56] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



LOVE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS 

In a sequestered spot my love and I, 
Hand clasped in hand, stood dreaming love's 
sweet dream, 

Watched from the craggy cliff the eagle fly, 
And heard the far off murmur of the stream. 

Ah! Happy soul in solitude that sips 

From this grand cup of Nature sent from 
heaven — 

"But I," said I, "from your red rosy lips, 
Quaff sweetest sweets by God or nature given. 

"Hush, Hush!" she said, and dropped her 
dusky head, 
"Who knows what eyes are turned upon us 
here?" 
"The angels see, and say not that it's wrong," I 
said, 
And from her drooping lashes kissed a tear. 



[57] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



NON COMMITTAL 

"Who made the rose on the rose bush?" 

" God made the red rose tree 
And the lilies fair, in the garden there," 

The little girl answered me. 

" Who made the thorn on the rose bush?" 

The little girl hung her head 
With a troubled frown and eyes cast down, 
Well — God made the rose," she said. 



a 



"Who made the sands at the seaside?" 
" God made the sands of the sea, 

And the waters blue, and the fishes, too," 
The little girl answered me. 

"Who made the dudes at the seaside?" 

The little girl raised her head 
With the faintest smile on her face the while 

" Well — God made the sands," she said. 



[58] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



MOTHER AND I 

I laugh when I list to the stories they tell 

Of how I was born one day; 
And tied in a towel to kick and to yell, 

And show them how much I could weigh. 
And when they had finished and I'd ceased to cry, 

While placidly chewing my thumb, 
We pressed the same pillow, — mother and I, 

And softly she started to hum : 

" Rock-a-by-baby, on the tree top, 
When the wind blows the cradle will rock ; 
When the bough breaks the cradle will fall, 
Down will come baby, cradle and all." 

Sometimes, when I think of the days that are 
dead, 

And the joy of my youthful years — 
Years that have rippled and gleamed and sped 

With the tide down the ocean of tears ; 
I remember at eve when the day would die 

And the twilight shadows had come, 
How we sat together — mother and I, 

And softly I started to hum: 

" Hush little mother, rest in my love, 
None love you better except God above ; 
Hush little mother, so loving and mild, 
I'll be the mother now, you be the child." 

[59] 



SONGS OF CY WARM AN 



When together we sat in the gloaming again 

In a faint and a feeble breath 
Was wafted a song from over the fen — 

From the valley and shadow of death; 
'Twas the echo that came from the sweet by-and- 

by, 

And the voices were whispering ," Come." 
We caught up the chorus — mother and I, 
And softly we started to hum : 

" Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee, 
E'en though it be a cross that raiseth me." 



[60] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



AN' DE WATAHMELON'S RIPEN' ALL 
AROUN' 

I heah a noisy katydid a-shoutin' up a tree, 

An' de watahmelon's ripen' all aroun'. 
He orter be a sleepin' like de honey bee, 

Wen de watahmelon's ripen' all aroun'. 
I heah de lonesome whistle ob de whippoorwill, 
De big, roun' moon's a fallin' down ahind de hill, 
And de hoot owl's a-hootin' on de oP cane mill; 
An' de watahmelon's ripen' all aroun'. 

De possum an' de raccoon am a-settin' on a rail, 

An' de 'simmons am a-ripen' all aroun' ; 
De raccoon pow'ful haughty 'cause he got a 
han'some tail, 
An' de 'simmons am a-ripen' all aroun'. 
Den de possum clim' de 'simmon, frap his tail 

aroun' a lim', 
An' he shout down to de raccoon, still a-starin' 

up at him : 
"Wen you want ter shake a 'simmon tree I'm 
yo' Jim; 
An' de 'simmons am a-fallin' all aroun'. 

De win' ain't mo' an' whispin' in de shaddeh ob 
de hill, 
An' de blue grapes a-ripen' all aroun'. 



[611 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



A nigger wid a milk can am a-usin' roun' de still, 

For de liquah am a-leakin' on de groun'. 
De mohnin' sta' am shinin' fo' de brokin' ob de 

day. 
Good mohnin', mistah red fox, yo' ain't got long 

to stay, 
Dah's a muffled-footed niggah gwin' ter chase de 
fox away, 
Fer de chickens am a-roos'in' all aroun'. 



BECAUSE WE LOVE 

Dear heart of mine, since we were wed, 
The second summer now is here, 
And love grows stronger every year. 

We are so happy, sweet, I said; 

Why is it? And she answered low, 
"Because we love each other so." 

Oft have I heard the moaning dove 

Call her lost mate from out the wood; 
She suffered, felt, and understood; 

For she was filled with grief and love. 
Such sorrow may we never know, 
Because we love each other so. 



[62] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



SWEET MARIE 

I've a secret in my heart, sweet Marie, 
A tale I would impart, love, to thee ; 
Every daisy in the dell 
Knows my secret, knows it well, 
And yet I dare not tell, sweet Marie. 

When I hold your hand in mine, sweet Marie, 
A feeling most divine comes to me; 

All the world is full of spring, 

Full of warblers on the wing, 
And I listen while they sing, sweet Marie. 

In the morn when I awake, sweet Marie, 
Seems to me my heart will break, love, for thee, 
Every wave that shakes the shore, 
Seems to sing it o'er and o'er, 
Seems to say that I adore sweet Marie. 

When the sunset tints the west, sweet Marie, 
And I sit down to rest, love, with thee ; 
All the stars that stud the sky 
Seem to stand and wonder why 
They're so dimmer than your eye, sweet Marie. 

Not the sunglints in your hair, sweet Marie, 
Not because your face is fair, love, to see; 
But your soul so pure and sweet, 
Makes my happiness complete, 
Makes me falter at your feet, sweet Marie. 

[63] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



THE CONVENT 

What is there here, what can there be 
That makes this drear old nunnery 
So strangely, sweetly dear to me? 

Down these old aisles the children pass, 

At early morn, to early mass 

To make them ready for the class. 

I pause in every quaint retreat 

And muse and say, " Here oft my sweet 

Has been; these floors have felt her feet." 

And so it's all made plain; I see 
What makes this drear old nunnery 
So strangely, sweetly dear to me. 



[64] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



SONG OF A SOUND SAILOR 

First we call at Bella Bella where they educate 
the reds, 
Where they learn to wear a Merry Widow 
chapeau on their heads, 
Where the hardy husky huskies lie asleep be- 
neath their sleds, 
But me heart is with me klutch at Kitsum- 
Kaylum. 

There's a maid at Metlakatla, holy city of the 
sea, 

And she says she hopes for heaven, but she al- 
ways looks for me. 

She's been maudlin at the Mission where she's 
learned to say, " 'Tis he," 
But she doesn't know my klutch at Kitsum- 
Kaylum. 

There's a woman waiting always on the wharf 
at Essington, 

There's a paleface at Prince Rupert who ad- 
dresses me, "me man," 

And I'm always t'rowing kisses at the kid at 
Katchikan, 
But you ought to see me klutch at Kitsum- 
Kaylum. 



[65] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



In me youth I used to reckon every female was 

a flirt, 
And I've heard a sailor call his 'Kaylum k'utch 

his "Sunday skirt/' 
But everything is different with me since I was 

hurt, 
An' me heart is with me klutch at Kitsum- 

Kaylum. 

Now, good-by, good-by, old Ocean, I am goin' 

to shake the sea; 
Just a little farm and fireside in the Skeena vale 

for me, 
And I'll rest me in the bosom of me little famillee. 
I am camping with me klutch at Kitsum- 

Kaylum. 



[66] 



Thoughtful Rhymes 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



WILL THE LIGHTS BE WHITE? 

Oft, when I feel my engine swerve, 

As o'er strange rails we fare, 
I strain my eye around the curve 

For what awaits us there. 
When swift and free she carries me 

Through yards unknown at night, 
I look along the line to see 

That all the lamps are white. 

The blue light marks the crippled car, 

The green light signals slow ; 
The red light is a danger light, 

The white light, " Let her go." 
Again the open fields we roam, 

And, when the night is fair, 
I look up in the starry dome 

And wonder what's up there. 

For who can speak for those who dwell 

Behind the curving sky ? 
No man has ever lived to tell 

Just what it means to die. 
Swift toward life's terminal I trend, 

The run seems short to-night ; 
God only, knows what's at the end — 

I hope the lamps are white. 



[69] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



ALASKA 

Three sleeps in a sleeper from Montreal, 

And a moon or so from the end of the line, 
And you stand at the foot of the great white 

wall — 
That is white with the snows that fall, and fall, 
O'er the cedar dwarfed and the drooping pine 
That grow at the feet of Alaska. 

Old and wrinkled and cold and gray, 

With her white pall pulled o'er her stony breast ; 
Frowning and frigid and far away, 
She has ever stood, as she stands to-day, 

In the desolate wastes of the wide Northwest — 
Stands this hoary old woman — Alaska. 

Unmolested for thousands of years, 

Isolated, remote and lone; 
Her hard face glacial with frozen tears, 
While over her shoulders and in her ears 

The winds of the North Land wail and moan, 
In the ears of old Mother Alaska. 

A party of prospectors passed that way, 

And they thought the old face had forgotten 
its frown, 
And, pausing, they pulled her white robe away 
And found her treasure: "Ah, q'est que c'est?" 
Said the French Canadian, kneeling down 
At the feet of old Mother Alaska. 
[70] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



They told their story, and men went wild, 

And pawned their chattels and joined the race. 
The old croon jingled her gold and smiled, 
And the gold-mad men of the world beguiled 
With a promise of fortune in that far place, 
At the feet of old Mother Alaska. 

But Oh, the rivers are wide and deep, 
And the north wind breathes with a killing 
breath ; 
And over the mountains so rough and steep 
The old dread reaper shall come and reap ; 
The rime old reaper that men call Death 
Shall reap the white fields of Alaska. 



THIS LIFE IS GOOD 

When meads and glades and everything 

Put on their sunny robe of spring — 
When fragrant flowers scent the air 
And birds make music everywhere, 

I say, while wandering in the wood, 

This life is good. 

When roses rest in Winter's tomb, 

And all the earth is garbed in gloom, 
At eventide about the hearth 
I sit, and say, despite the dearth, 

Of sun and sunset down the wood, 

This life is good. 

[71] 



SONGS OF CY WABMAN 



HEREAFTER 

Canst picture, said a friend to me, 
The joy of what is yet to be? 
Canst thou describe eternity? 

Dost thou believe that when we take 
That last, long sleep, a day shall break 
The dreamless night? Shall we awake? 

Tell me, with reason in thy rhyme, 
Dost think there'll be no end of time, 
Nor end of bliss, in that blest clime? 

I do not know, for sure, I said, 

I know not those whose light feet tread 

Yon shore; I know the dead are dead. 

I've seen the summer birds take wing, 
When winter came, and in the spring 
Come back again, to soar and sing. 

I've seen the red rose in the glen. 

Hid 'neath the hoar frost, die, and then 

In brighter hours, bloom again. 

I've seen the soul, freed from the clay 
That held it here, reach far away, 
Take up its harp and start to play. 
[72] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



I've seen a mother die, and she, 
When came to her what must to me, 
Looked smiling toward eternity. 

And I can see while roses bloom 

Where roses fade through life's long gloom, 

A gleam of hope beyond the tomb. 

But whatsoe'er the future be, 
If there's a life for you and me, 
To last through all eternity, 

'Twere well to keep this point in view : 

Do UNTO MAN, THY WHOLE LIFE THROUGH, 
As THOU WOULDST HAVE HIM DO TO YOU. 

And then when thou art o'er the range, 
Where all are good, though many strange, 
Thou may'st not feel too great the change. 



[73] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



"ALL'S WELL WITH THE WORLD" 

I 

" 0, God, send down the rain, 
The earth is parched and dry, 
The roses die!" 

With faces 'gainst the pane 
The people cry. 

Upon the quivering air 

Spent birds on weary wing 

Keep winnowing, 
Because they have not where 

To rest or sing. 

Far in the north, a low 

Deep rumbling; a lightning chain 

Lights up the plain, 
God's lights are off; and so 

God sends the rain. 

II 

"0, God! Keep off the rain 

A little while. Behold 

A sea of gold, 
Of wimpling, golden grain, 

Thy wrath withhold." 



[74] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



"O, God! withhold the hail/' 
The anxious people prayed, 
All sore afraid, 

While o'er the prairie trail 
The lightning played. 

So, through the long, long night 
With prayer the storm they staved, 
The full heads waved. 

Then God switched on the light — 
The crops were saved. 



THE HARVEST 

I'm satisfied we're stratified, 

And dwell upon a certain plane, 
Souls meet and part, and meet again; 

No soul that ever lived has died. 

We plant and reap as on we go, 

We sow in smiles, sometimes in tears, 
To reap in kind in after years ; 

We reap precisely as we sow. 

All things are ordered ; and in fine, 
We take our winnings on the way, 
From year to year, from day to day; 

And you get yours, and I get mine. 

[75] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



THE RISE AND FALL OF CREEDE 

A thousand burdened burros filled 
The narrow, winding, wriggling trail. 

A hundred settlers came to build, 
Each day, new houses in the vale. 

A hundred gamblers came to feed 

On these same settlers — this was Creede. 

Slanting Annie, Gambler Joe 
And bad Bob Ford, Sapolio, — 

Or Soapy Smith, as he was known, — 
Ran games peculiarly their own, 

And everything was open wide, 

And men drank absinthe on the side. 



And now the Faro Bank is closed, 

And Mr. Faro's gone away 
To seek new fields, it is supposed, — 

More verdant fields. The gamblers say 
The man who worked the shell and ball 

Has gone back to the Capitol. 

The winter winds blow bleak and chill, 
The quaking, quivering aspen waves 

About the summit of the hill — 
Above the unrecorded graves 

Where halt abandoned burros feed 
And coyotes call — and this is Creede. 

[76] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



Lone graves whose head-boards bear no name, 
Whose silent owners lived like brutes 

And died as doggedly, — but game, 
And most of them died in their boots. 

We mind among the unwrit names 
The man who murdered Jesse James. 

We saw him murdered, saw him fall, 

And saw his mad assassin gloat 
Above him. Heard his moans and all, 

And saw the shot holes in his throat, 
And men moved on and gave no heed 

To life or death — and this is Creede. 



[77] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



THE SOUL OF THE SASKATCHEWAN 

The lifeblood of old Egypt courses with the 
muddy Nile, 
The Czar sleeps with his faith in men who 
guard the empty street; 
The peace of many nations rests behind a thin, 
red file; 
But the soul of the Saskatchewan's a little 
grain of wheat. 

The thin red line may riot, where but lately it 
salaamed, 
The sentinel may slumber, and a mob possess 
the street; 
Old Egypt may know famine and the muddy 
Nile be dammed, 
But the soul of the Saskatchewan remains, a 
grain of wheat. 

Let nation banter nation with their battle-flags 
unfurled, 
The State may stand secure a space behind a 
frowning fleet; 
God's sunshine on Saskatchewan! her fields 
shall feed the world, 
For the soul of the Saskatchewan's a little 
grain of wheat. 



[78] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



THE BULL TEAM 

The sturdy bull, with stately tread, 
Submissive, silent, bows his head 
And feels the yoke ; the creaking wain 
Rolls leisurely across the plain; 
Across the trackless, treeless land, 
An undulating sea of sand, 
Where mocking, sapless rivers run; 

With swollen tongue and bloodshot eye, 
Still on to where the shadows lie, 
And onward toward the setting sun. 

With tearful eyes he looks away 

To where his free-born brothers play 

Upon the prairie wild and wide ; 

He turns his head from side to side; 

He feels the bull whip's cruel stroke; 

Again he leans against the yoke. 

At last his weary walk is done. 
He pauses at the river's brink, 
And drinks the while his drivers drink, 

Almost beside the setting sun. 



[79] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



THE WRECK AT CABAZA 

When Engineer West saw the danger he reversed his engine and 
set the air brake ; and thus, in his last moment on earth, saved 
many lives. — Press Despatch. 

At home, abroad, beyond the sea, 
When over seas I chance to roam, 

These sad, sad stories come to me 
Of old-time friends I knew at home; 

So that, where'er I voyage, I 

Know what they do and how they die. 

The driver saw — the wires so say — 
The open switch : with his last breath 

Alarmed his mate, and stayed, that they 
Who filled the train might not see death. 

There was the river, hard ahead : 

Himself and mate made up the dead. 

They die not with averted face; 

For such their friends have not to blush. 
When the dread reaper comes apace 

They fall like heroes. In the hush 
Go search the wreck, you'll find them pale 
In death, and not far from the rail. 



[80] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



TWO SOLDIERS 

"Now," said the one-armed soldier, 

" I'll tell you e'er I go, 
About the Border Brothers, 

Twin brothers of St. Joe. 

" One did things on the desert, 
Amid the dust and drought, 

The other took his musket, 

And soldiered at the South. 

" One looked along a transit, 
And trailed a tape of steel; 

One squinted o'er a cannon 
That made the rebels reel. 

" While one was puffing, snuffing, 

Away the vital spark, 
The other kept his vigil 

Where Sioux scalped in the dark, 

" While one was routing rebels 

Where the white Potomac foams, 

One chisled out an Empire 

That holds a million homes. 



" One sleeps in the Sierros 

Beneath a shroud of snow, 



[81] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



One sleeps beneath a statue — 
Equestrian in St. Joe. 

" While one was making widows 
The other made the West; 

Now, children, choose your hero. 
Which soldier battle lost?" 



SANGRE DE CHRISTO 

Sangre de Christo, let me trace 
The beauties of thy furrowed face, 

While soft the perfumed summer breeze 

Makes music in thine arboles; 
And, as I look, thine every peak 
To me, in silence seems to speak ; 

Sangre — the blood that flowed so free ; 

Christ o — the Christ on Calvary. 

I see upon thy riven side 

Great rifts through which the rivers flow; 
And they tell, too, how Jesus died, 

As down to seek the sea they go ; 
And through the verdant vale they sing 
The praises of the Risen King. 

Sangre — the blood that flowed so free; 

Christ o — the Christ on Calvary. 
[82] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



THERE IS NO DEATH 

There is no death ! 

The flowers bloom ; 

Their sweet perfume 
Floats o'er the night — 
The hills are white. 

The summer birds have sped away, 

The summer days are dead, they say, 
But when the spring comes back, the wren 
Sings sweet, the flowers bloom again. 

There is no death ! 

We fall asleep 

And wake to weep, 
Youth's happy springtime wears away, 
With voices weak, our hair grows gray; 

But after that last sleep, ah, then, 

We know that man must live again. 
There is no death ! 



[83] 



SONGS OF CY WARM AN 



UNDER THE WILLOWS 

Here I used to sit and listen for the patter of her 
feet, 
For the tiny hands to pound upon the door ; 
But the icy hand of death has touched the fore- 
head of my sweet, 
And the baby voice is hushed forevermore. 

Angels keep my baby, 

Where the willows wave; 

Where with each recurring spring 
Feathered warblers come and sing, 

When the violets are blooming o'er her grave. 

To a quiet western woodland now my memory 
sadly turns, 
Where the summer wild rose scents the silent 
gloom, 
Where a busy little brook is singing softly in the 
ferns, 
And the willow boughs are bending o'er her 
tomb. 

Angels keep my baby, 
Where the willows wave; 

Where the low winds sob and sigh, 

When the summer roses die, 
And the autumn leaves are falling on her grave. 

[84] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



Only now I slept and dreamed that I was kneel- 
ing there to-night , 
Where my little one is sleeping on the hill; 
Even now, when I'm awake, and the tears fall as 
I write, 
I can seem to hear the music of the rill. 

Angels keep my baby, 

Where the willows wave; 

Where the winds blow bleak and drear 
When the silent woodland's sear, 

And the snow is drifting deep upon her grave. 



[85] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



LITTLE THERESA, THE WAIF 

To a place where the poor of the city, 

The shoeblacks and news children meet, 
A fairy waif came with a banjo, 

And a voice, oh, so soothing and sweet, 
That it brought back the scent of the summer 

With orange-trees blooming above, 
And mocking-birds in the magnolias, 

As soft as the song of a dove. 

With holes in her sleeves and her stockings, 

Torn shoes on her little brown feet, 
Eyes like limpid pools in the mountains — 

Her hair was like ripening wheat. 
When she came out again — the Infanta 

Joanna, bejewelled and gay — 
My friend laughed: "I say, vot you cry for? 

She vas yust make-belief in der play." 

She was beautiful then, as a picture 

Is beautiful — only to see ; 
But she never can be so enchanting 

As the little tramp singer to me. 
I know you will say it is better, 

For in luxury's lap she is safe; 
If I could, though, I would not forget her 

As little Theresa, the Waif. 



[86] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



MY FRIEND — THE PROSPECTOR 

If I were to write for the papers to print, 

What here I indite, I opine 
That my critics would say it was written that 
way 

For so many dollars a line. 
And so, with the view that I'm writing to you, 

Where no critic's lances are hurled, 
I'll touch the taut string of my lyre and sing 

Of the best-hearted man in the world. 

Hark back to the prospect in Poverty Gulch, 

Before you found dirt that would pay, 
When the hope in your breast, like the gold in 
The west, 

Burned brightest at close of the day. 
If I were but rich, or, if you were still poor, 

And we sat where your cabin smoke curled, 
Then in unstinted lays I could pour out the 
praise 

Of the best-hearted man in the world. 



[871 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



IN THE TWILIGHT 

My hands are growing weary, 
While from my setting sun 

The gold is slowly fading, 
And so much work undone. 

Now every passing moment 
Some task unfinished brings 

To hands grown weary doing 
So many useless things. 

My feet are also weary : 

The ways they walk are hard, 

The thorns have held and hurt them, 
The stones have left them scarred. 

Here, in the gathering twilight, 

They falter now and fail, 
Poor feet that stray so far from 

The straight and narrow trail. 

Away off in a canon 

I hear a lost sheep cry, 
And on the perfect pathway 

See happy souls go by. 

But, Oh ! My soul is weary 

As wearily I plod, 
And all because I've wandered 

So far away from God. 



[88] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



WHERE WOMEN DON'T GO 

The flowers that bloom in the springtime, 
And make the dull world seem so gay, 

Have never a thought in the meantime 
That bloom bringeth blight and decay. 

The glad bird that sings by the river, 

Smiling up at the blue opal sky, 
Never dreams in its joy that the giver 

Of Song has adjudged it to die. 

The brooklet that babbles and blushes, 
And gladdens the glen with its glee, 

Knoweth not that it wilfully rushes 
To the silent, sad shores of the sea. 

But man, while in youth's happy morning, 
When the world seems so sunny and bright, 

In the song of each bird hears a warning, 
And the brooklets are whispering, "Night." 

For Time follows closely behind him, 
And hurries him, half out of breath, 

And the gathering gloaming will find him 
In the valley and shadow of death. 

Of course, we have heard the old story, 
That down the dim vista of years, 



[89] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



A woman took gladness and glory 
And sold it for sorrow and tears. 

But if woman has brought all this sorrow, 
And filled this wide world full of woe, 

I would not exchange it to-morrow 
For a heaven where women don't go. 



WE NEVER KNOW 

We never know the joy of it 

'Till love is turned to hate, 
Nor heed the crimes that we commit 

Until it is too late. 

We never need the sun so much 
As when it has gone down; 

Nor know the bliss that's in a kiss 
'Till we have felt a frown. 

The empty arms when loved ones part, 

From being idle, ache; 
We never know we have a heart 

'Till it begins to break. 



[90] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



GOD IS LOVE 

When they pressed the desert sand, 

Love was there. 
Joseph holding Mary's hand, 

Love was there. 
In the hovel where she slept, 
Weary, travel-worn, she wept, 
But the holy faith was kept — 

Love was there. 

When he walked upon the sea, 

Love was there; 
In the lone Gethsemane, 

Love was there. 
When they put Him to disgrace, 
Mocked Him in a public place, 
When the rabble smote His face, 

Love was there. 

And He counted nothing loss, 

Love was there; 
Though they nailed Him to the cross 

Love was there. 
"God is love" the Scripture saith, 
Even to His parting breath, 
At the open door of death, 

Love was there. 



[91] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



GIVE US THIS DAY 

"Give us this day/' a mother prayed, 
And knelt upon a naked floor, 
" O God, from out thy plenteous store, 

Give us this day our daily bread. 

" I know that Thou wilt find the way — 
Thou who hast fed the multitude — 
For Thou art God, and God is good; 

Give us our daily bread this day. 

" 'Tis true a legion lips have said 
This prayer for many, many weeks ; 
But lo ! at last a nation speaks, 

Give us this day our daily bread." 



[92] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



WAITING FOR THE WILD GOOSE 

In the shelter of my wigwam I am waiting for 
the spring, 
For the forest flowers to blossom in the vale : 
I am watching from my wigwam for the wild 
goose on the wing, 
When Til gather up my traps and hit the trail 
To the Highlands of Ontario, in the merry berry- 
moon, 
To the haunts of Hiawatha that are nigh; 
To the banks of Athabaska, where it's always 
afternoon — 
0, I wonder when the wild goose will go by? 

While the first black crow is calling in the dawn- 
ing down the dell, 
I am dreaming of the summer; in my dream 
I can hear the Mudjekeewis sighing softly; I can 
smell 
A wild rose blooming near a northern stream ; 
I am skirting Nova Scotia, that is gaily garbed 
in green, 
With the cool Atlantic billows breakin' high, 
Or I sit and sigh where Gabriel kissed his fair 
Evangeline — 
I wonder when the wild goose will go by? 

Then away to Western Canada — big fish on the 
fine, 

[93] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



A quaking aspen quivering in the breeze; 
Again good Mudjekeewis comes a-crooning 
through the pine, 
And blows my little bark o'er Lake Louise. 
Won't you come and camp in Canada? It's not 
all snow and ice 
(I thought I saw a shadow from the sky) — 
It's the only Unstaked Empire — the Camper's 
Paradise — 
Adois ! — I see a wild goose going by. 



TRANSPORTATION 

If all our cars were motor cars, 

Encumbering the land, 
And shooting by like shooting stars, 

We'd have nowhere to stand. 

If all our plains were aeroplanes 

Sweeping the curving sky, 
The railroads might side-track their trains, 

And put on wings and fly. 

In many ways, in many things, 

God's wisdom he reveals; 
To some men he hath given wings, 

And others — they have wheels. 
[94] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



TO-MORROW 

To-morrow! Oh, To-morrow; 

The day that I like best; 
For though my sunset's clouded 

It's golden farther west. 
Observe the little sparrow 

Throughout the dark To-day, 
She sings of her To-morrow 

And th' egg she's going to lay. 

I hear a sad soul sighing 

To leave this "vale of tears" 
But make no doubt he's lying 

About a hundred years 
And feel no twinge of sorrow 

When his ship puts to sea, 
The ship that sails To-morrow 

Sails soon enough for me. 

For tho' my sun's declining 

Behind yon hoary hill, 
I know that it is shining 

Beyond the summit still; 
And howsoe'er I sorrow, 

I know 'twill pass away. 
God gives a glad To-morrow 

For every dull To-day. 



[95] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



"GIVE ME NOT RICHES'' 

I want to find a place for me 

Where Nature's harps are all in tune, 

A calm, or a still, on Life's rough sea, 
A place where it's always afternoon, 

A quiet, peaceful place somewhere 

Between the tramp and the millionaire. 

Where it's not all joy and not all pain; 

Not too much shine, nor too much shade; 
Just a place to hide me from the rain; 

An easy place where the rent is paid, 
And not too close to the man of care, 

And not too far from the millionaire. 



GRIEF 

The first great grief that comes into a life 
Falls heavy on the heart unused to pain; 

But when each day brings greater care and strife 
And life endures, we hope again. 

Then, looking back to pain from which we 
shrank, 

To stony ways we walked with bleeding feet, 
So bitter now the cup, that what we drank 

In other days, would now seem sweet. 
[96] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



MEMORIAL DAY 

Gather the garlands rare to-day, 

Snow-white roses and roses red; 
Gather the fairest flowers of May, 
Heap them up on the heaps of clay, 

Gladden the graves of the noble dead. 

Pile them high as the soldiers were 

Piled on the field where they fought and fell; 
They will rejoice in their new place there 
To-day, as they walk where the fragrant air 

Is sweet with the scent of the asphodel. 

Many a time, I have heard it said, 

They fell so thick where the battles were, 
Their hot blood rippled, and running red, 
Ran out like a rill from the drifted dead 
And stained the heath and the daisies there. 

This day the friends of the soldier keep, 

And they will keep it through all the years, 
To the silent city where soldiers sleep 
Will come with flowers, to stand and weep 
And water the garlands with their tears. 



[97] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



THE STAGE COACH 

The long lash wimples and curves and cracks, 
In a puff of dust, on the nacked backs 
Of the lithesome leaders and the joyous load 
Is whisked away down the dusty road 

Where the shameless aspens shiver, nude, 
In the autumn winds. In the cabin rude 
The lone prospector lightly dreams 
Of a pay-streak hiding in the seams 

Of the rifted rocks. On the very crest 
Of these gnarled monarchs of the West 
Trends the twisting trail where the laughing load 
Is whisked away down the dusty road. 

With fingers woofed in a warp of reins, 
The driver shuns the heavy wains, 
With their many mules with nodding ears, 
Like waving palms; our driver jeers 

At the freighter with his homely load, 
And whisks away down the dusty road. 



[98] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



THE CRY OF A SHIPWRECKED SOUL 

Not many men are wholly bad, 

None altogether good ; 
In my brief life fine times I've had, 

Yet half my life I've rued. 
We're all twin-souled, and side by side, 
Good Jekyll walks with Mr. Hyde. 

This tent, foredoomed to moth and mold, 

This frail and fading frame, 
So sensitive to heat and cold 

Yet dead to joy or shame, 
Shelters a soul, and just inside 
Sits Jekyll watching Mr. Hyde. 

When I look back along life's way, 

Wherever I have strayed 
Are mile-posts gleaming grim and gray — 

Mistakes that I have made. 
The deeds of Jekyll all forgot 
While Hydes remain to mark the spot. 

By day I walk the woodland green, 

And come so near to God 
His answering signals may be seen 

In each wild rose's nod; 
Here, in the town, at night I ride 
Headlong for hell, my horse is Hyde. 



* 



[99] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



And now, beneath His chastening rod, 
I wring my hands and pray : 

" Turn back Thy Universe, 0, God, 
And give me yesterday." 

Crush Lust and Vanity and Pride, 

But not too hard on Mr. Hyde. 



With mast and compass blown away, 
The winds howl o'er the deck, 

No sail in sight — the sea is gray — 
I swim around the wreck. 

O, ghost of Christ, thou crucified, 

Have mercy on me — Mr. Hyde. 



[100] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



THE WIDOWER 

Christmas eve! How many hearts are light 

to-night, 
How many happy homes are bright ; 
But to me the world seems cruel, cold and drear. 
There's little left in life to cheer me here. 
I wonder if in all the years to be 
There'll be anything but clouds and tears for me? 

Alone I walk the busy streets 
And look into each happy face I meet; 
Soul sick and sad I turn away 
And upon my lonely pillow my aching head I lay, 
And while the festive feasts go on 
I think of happy Christmas times that have 
come and gone. 

Here in the silence and the gloom, 

The solitude of my lonely room; 

I close my eyes and then behold 

Her still, white face, so calm, so cold, 

Just as it looked to me that day 

When I kissed her pale, still lips of lifeless clay. 



[101] 



SONGS OF CY WABMAN 



THE ISOLATION OF A CHILD 

I once knew a dear little mother, 

With a beautiful, blue-eyed boy. 
She constantly bathed and brushed him, 

And when he had tired of a toy 
She would take it and scald it and scrap it, 

And lay it away in the sun, 
And that is the way she took care of 

His playthings, every one. 

Pent up in his own little playhouse, 

The baby grew peaked and pale, 
And there were the neighbors' children 

All dirty and happy and hale. 
If the baby went out for an airing, 

The nurse was to understand 
That none of the neighbors' children 

Was ever to touch his hand. 

But they did, and the injured mother 

Brought the dear baby inside 
And shut him up in his playhouse, 

Where the little one fretted and died. 
Then the torn heart turned to the Virgin, 

And this was the weight of her prayer : 
" Oh, mother, dear, don't let him play with 

The other angels up there!" 



[102] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



THE WEST 

Come, take my hand and walk with me 
To where the lifting prairies lie, 
Close up against the western sky, 

The land of Opportunity. 

The Earth is yours ! And it is mine 
To beacon you back to the land, 
To help you find a place to stand, 

To plant a fig tree and a vine 

In God's good world. He made the West ! 
Amid the hills set sunny vales, 
And for the Iron Horse broke trails, 

Wrote "Finis," and sat down to rest. 



[103] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



THE CANON OF THE GRAND 

I'm going to paint a picture with a pencil of my 

own; 
I shall have no hand to help me, I shall paint it 

all alone. 
Oft I fancy it before me and my hopeful heart 

grows faint, 
As I contemplate the grandeur of the picture I 

would paint. 

When I rhyme about the river, the laughing, 

limpid stream, 
Whose ripples seem to shiver as they glide and 

glow and gleam; 
Of the waves that beat the boulders that are 

strewn upon the sand, 
You will recognize the river in the Canon of the 

Grand. 

When I write about the mountains, with their 

heads so high and hoar, 
Of the cliffs and craggy canons, where the waters 

rush and roar, 
When I speak about the walls that rise so high 

on either hand, 
You will recognize the rock-work in the Canon 

of the Grand. 

[104] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



God was good to make the mountains, the val- 
leys and the hills, 

Put the rose upon the cactus and the ripple on 
the rills; 

But if I had all the words of all the worlds at my 
command, 

I could not paint a picture of the Canon of the 
Grand. 



IN MEMORY 

In memory of a brow of snow, 
Of one fair face I used to know, 
Of love that languished, long ago. 

Of miss-set signals and the wreck, 
Of baby arms about my neck, 
Of bitter tears I may not check. 

In memory of a golden band, 
Of one who could not understand 
The empty clasp of her cold hand. 



[105] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



SIC TRANSIT GLORIA MUNDI 

A red rose grew by the garden gate, 
And sweetly scented the silent gloom 

When the city slept — when the hour was late, 
The night wind wafted its pure perfume 

Up to my window, and o'er my bed, 

'Till I was in love with the rose so red. 

But I think now, perhaps it's wrong 
To love these things that only bide 

A few brief days, with a love so strong; 
For folding its petals the red rose died; 

And then I sorrowed, and sighed and said : 

"Life is lonely, my rose is dead." 

And then, ere long, another rose 

Bloomed in life's way — a human flower; 

And it brought to me such sweet repose, 
And held my heart with a hidden power, 

And soothed my soul that was worn with care, 

'Till I was in love with the rose so rare. 

And that fair flower that I loved so long, 
With a love that was never satisfied 

That I loved with a love so strangely strong — 
Folded its soft white hands and died; 

Again I sorrowed and sighed and said; 

" Life is lonely, my love is dead. 

[106] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



WHERE THE FLOWERS TALK 

I want to go where the flowers blow 

On the mountains high and hoary; 
Where the summer winds shake the patient pines 

And the sun, in its golden glory, 
Falls o'er the stream where the ripples gleam; 

Where the shores are shoal and sandy. 
I want to walk where the flowers talk 

On the banks of the Rio Grande. 

I love the stills in the running rills — 

The willowy rills, half hidden — 
That lie in the lap of the gentle hills — 

In the lap of the hills unchidden. 
I love the leas where the honey bees 

Are making sweets from the clover. 
I love to walk where the flowers talk, 

With the blue sky arching over. 



[107] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



WHEN WE GO OFF AND DIE 

The road is rough and rocky, 

The road that leads to fame; 
The way is strewn with skeletons 

Of those who have grown lame 
And have fallen by the wayside; 

The world will pass you by, 
Nor pause to read your manuscript 

'Till you go off and die. 

You'll find no shoulders here below 

To help you bear the cross ; 
You'll have to eat your mutton plain 

Without the caper sauce; 
And when you read down to desert, 

You'll find a dearth of pie, 
And you'll never know what pudding is 

'Till you go off and die. 

But there's a consolation in 

The thought that when we're dead 
If we have written something good, 

Our efforts will be read. 
And friends will plant forget-me-nots, 

And come and sit and sigh, 
And irrigate our graves with tears 

When we go off and die. 

[108] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



LO, THE POOR INDIAN 

There's only one 

Good Indian, 

It has been said, 

And he is dead ; 

But with this jeii d 7 esprit 

I beg to disagree. 

There's Lo, 

Who for a century or so, 

Has stood in sun and rain alone, 

Making no moan. 

Let those who frame freak laws 

Give pause. 

This painted Indian who guards the store 

Knows more 

Of the maudlin midnight secrets of the souls of 

men, 
Who mouthed them over and over, yet and 

again, 
Than any other Indian red or white. 
How oft at night, 

When the last riotous reveler had fled 
Or lay dead, 
Soused in the sawdust, have you gone forth to 

find some one 
To lean upon? 
Then Lo, 

The poor son-of-a-gun 
Of an Indian, 

[1091 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



Is made to bear the White Man's Burden for an 

hour or so. 
And when you have wept upon his vest 
You sink to rest 
Against his chest; 
Presently you wake in dire distress 
And evening dress, — 
The rosy westering sunlight showing your 

shame, — 
And blame 

The poor Indian for keeping you out all night. 
It is a fright 

The way we've used this Indian for years, 
And now in tears 
I tear off this tribute, and sob out this sentiment 

to Lo — 
He's got to go. 



[HO] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



WORRISOME JIM 

Jim worried and worried his weary life through 
'Till we christened him Worrisome Jim, 

Just wondering what would the company do 
If anything happened to him. 

His pumps were forgotten, his water ran low, 
While he sat a- thinking, no doubt. 

There's a rent in the roof of the mill shed to show 
Where Worrisome Jimmie went out. 

The ambulance came — he was wagoned away; 

For a time he lay listless and still; 
At the end of six months, half a year to a day — 

And Jimmie came back to the mill. 

But he wouldn't stop worrying. Out in the park, 
Where the street lamps at intervals shine, 

A motor came hurrying down through the dark 
And it hit him a kick in the spine. 

The old mill is grinding the same as of yore, 

The eyes of his widow are dim; 
The places that knew him now know him no 
more, 

For something has happened to him. 



[Hi] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



BAD ON THE BIRD 

A rash little robin sailed over the sea, 
And lit on a tree-twig, and gazing at me, 
He softly and silently folded his wing 
And said, in a whisper, " I came here to sing." 
"You pose as a poet," the little bird said, 
"Then why don't you warble and waken the 
dead 
Fields and flowers that slumber? Warble and 

bring 

The lilies to life again — Why don't you sing?" 

I looked at the snow-drifts that lingered around 

The fences and trees, where the frost in the 

ground 

Seemed to keep them from melting, — I saw 

not a thing, 
Save the bird, that gave any assurance of 
spring. 
I was just about telling the bird what a joke 
It would be if the spring didn't come, when there 
broke 
O'er the valley a storm, and the elements 

played 
Hail on his tail 'till his feathers were frayed. 



[112] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



GENTLE ANNIE 

Now the restless hand of Nature 

Reaches out to shift the scene, 
And the brooks begin to warble in the dell; 

And the waking fields are fluffy, 
And the meadow lands are green, 

And the tassels on the trees begin to swell. 

Now the young man finds his fancy 
Turning tow'rd the things of time, 

And the miner's lightly turning tow'rd the trail; 
And when we would be prosy, 

We are drifting into rhyme — 
It is springtime, gentle Annie, in the vale. 

Now the naked hills are hiding 

'Neath a garb of gaudy hue, 
And the tramps are growing restless in the jail; 

All the woodland melts in melody, 
And everything is new; 

It is springtime, gentle Annie, in the vale. 



[113] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



THE WAY WE WALKED 

I met a woman on life's way, 

A woman fair to see ; 
Or caught up with her I should say, 

Or she caught up with me. 
"The way is long when one's alone," 

I said, "and dangerous, too; 
I'll help you by each stumbling stone, 

If I may walk with you." 

Then on we went; her laughing eyes 

And sunny smiles were sweet ; 
Above us blue and burnished skies, 

And roses 'neath our feet. 
" I'm glad your sunny face I've seen," 

I said; " When life is through 
I'll own the best of it has been 

The way I walked with you. 

" I do not say my love, my life, 

Will all be given to grief 
When you are gone; the ceaseless strife 

Will bring me much relief. 
But when Death's hand the curtain draws, 

When life's long journey's through, 
'Twill not have all been bad, because 

I came part way with you." 



[114] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



THE CITY CHOIR 

I went to hear the city choir : 

The summer night was still. 
I heard the music mount the spire, 

They sang: "He'll take the pil — " 

"I'm on! I'm on!" the tenor cried; 

And looked into my face ; 
"My journey home, My journey home," 

Was bellowed by the bass. 

" It is for the — It is for the — " 

Shrieked the soprano shrill. 
I knew not why they looked at me, 

And yelled, "He'll take the pil — " 

Then clutching wildly at my breast, 
Oh, heaven ! My heart stood still : 

"Yes, yes," I cried, "If that is best, 
Ye powers! I'll take the pil — " 

As I, half fainting, reached the door, 

And saw the starry dome, 
I heard them sing : " When life is o'er 

He'll take the pilgrim home." 



[115] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



WE AIN'T HAD NO SPRING 

Man's a chump to set and rhyme 
'Bout this soft Italian clime — 

Sunny skies, so blue and bright ; 

Sky's all right, but out o' sight. 
Summer birds with broken wing — 
Some are birds that want to sing — 
We ain't had a bit o' spring. 

Sun comes out and then goes back ; 
Ho'ses waitin' on the track. 

Summer's here? We don't know where 

There's no music in the air. 
Spring's all scrambled with the fall — 
I think Foster's got his gall — 
We ain't had no spring at all. 



THE DEATH OF A DEW-DROP 

My sweetheart placed in my cOat lapel 
A beautiful, blushing boutonnaire, 

And there was a dew-drop where it fell, 

In the heart of the rose was an angel's tear. 

How sweet, I thought, when the petals close 
The death of the dew-drop in the rose. 

[1161 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



THE PRINTER 

Poor artists, who preserve the arts, 

Who toil through weary nights and days 

With tired eyes and heavy hearts; 
No poet sings the printer's praise. 

To them, the years no glory bring, 
They walk not in the path of fame; 

But uncomplaining sit and sing 
The praises of another's name. 

And me they much have helped along, 

And doubtless after I am dead 
They'll print my name and spell it wrong, 

And part it with a period. 

JEALOUSY 

A brindle pup in a prairie town 

Saw a greyhound gliding past, 
And he said to the other dogs around: 

" You think that greyhound's fast? 
Leave ut to muh," as the trail he hit: 
"That hound can't go a little bit." 

The brindle pup in the prairie town 

Dug deep in the prairie trail, 
But miles behind the hunting hound, 

And he failed, as a cur must fail; 
And then with biting, snapping snarl 
The pup went back to the garbage barrel. 

[117] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



THE FLYER 

Across the hill and down the dell, 

Past station after station; 
The muffled music of the bell 

Gives voice to each vibration. 

Out o'er the prairie, cold and gray, 

There falls a flood of fire, 
While orders flash for miles away : 

"Take siding for the flyer." 

The engine seems to fairly float, 

Her iron sinews quiver, 
While swift, beneath her throbbing throat, 

The rails rush like a river. 

Upon the seat the engineer, 

Who knows her speed and power, 

Sits silently without a fear 
At sixty miles an hour. 



[118] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



ENGINE .007 
To Mr. Kipling 

" Now a locomotive is, next to a marine engine, of course, 
the most sensitive thing man ever made." — Rudyard Kipling in 
Scribner's Magazine. 



I am not supersensitive like Canada that throws 
A fit and has hysterics when she's called a land 

of snows — 
Which snow is half her glory, e'en as mine bides 

in my pull, 
And push, and speed, and come and go; and yet 

my heart is full 
Of grief and indignation. First off, you write 

me "he," 
And rate me 'long with stationary water boilers. 

We — 
(I speak for all my sisters — all who wear the 

petticoat,* 
For we are "ladies" every one, aye, even to the 

Goat)f 
We all are proud to have engaged the pen of one 

who may 
At will depict the eagle less imposing than the 

jay; 

* Draft, or lifting pipe. f A yard engine. — C. W. 

[119] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



II 

Who only needs to pause, and touch, or breathe 

upon the strings 
Of the mute lyre, and lo, the songless slumberer 

wakes and sings, 
And all the glad world listens to his songs that 

rise and swell; 
Blame not my poor interpreter, for he, too, loves 

you well. 
He loves your friend, McAndrews, too, who loved 

his engines so ; 
The engines Calvin might have made, "enor- 
mous," aye, but "slow." 
My driver also loves me. He knows the sort of 

steel 
Of which my wheels and ribs are wrought, and 

what it is to feel 
My hot breath on his upturned face; to test my 

speed and power; 
While holding me against the night at ninety 

miles an hour. 

Ill 

And you call these more sensitive who flounder 
in the sea, 

Or drive the tug — or boil the glue — more sensi- 
tive than we, 

Who show ourselves in half an hour in half a 
dozen towns, 

[120] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



And sound our bells by running brooks and 

whistle on the downs; 
I thank you kindly, Kipling, for the kind words 

you have said, 
I'd blush to seem ungrateful, yet when my 

driver read : 
"Next to marine engine" — O! Mgger-stoked 

at sea! 
Well, when it all came home to him, he shot one 

glance at me, 
The sunset shimmering o'er my sides and on my 

burnished bell, 
And white steam fluttering from my dome as we 

dropped down the dell. 

IV 

We passed a ferry coughing low and sidling cross 
a stream; 

The driver pulled my whistle valve and made me 
fairly scream; 

"Wi! Wi! watch the world goby!" you should 
have seen his smile; 

The clock hands marking forty-seven seconds to 
the mile. 

I hope it was not vanity. The engine in the 
mill 

That toils and runs from year to year, tho' al- 
ways standing still, 

Excites my pity. Like a fettered felon in his 

chains 

[121] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



She toils on patiently, while I go romping o'er 

the plains. 
I'm sure the lumbering engine that rolls in a 

twisting sea 
Would gladly, gladly come ashore and roam the 

earth with me. 



She knows there is a "world" somewhere that 

she has never seen. 
She knows she has a boiler, too, somewhere 

below the green 
Line of the ocean. Now the driver hooked my 

lever back 
A notch, and leaning, listened to the flutter of 

my stack. 
We passed a little thresher engine, sweating in 

a field, 
And how my heart went out to her, rust-red and 

half concealed 
In smoke and dust. The driver lightly laid his 

hand on me, 
And touched my throttle half a hair, 'n I felt 

the touch. Says he: 
"Did you read what that rooster writ, 'bout 

sensitive machines?" 
"Yes," said the fireman; "that's a joke, 'twas 

writ for the marines." 



[122] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



I OUGHT TO BE BETTER 

Fm thinking, my queen, 
As we sit here to-night, 

How loveless and lone life would be 
If I were to lose you, 
My own heart's delight. 

Ah, God has dealt kindly with me. 

He's given you to me 
To help me along 

And brighten the days that are dim ; 
And I do so much 
In my life that is wrong — 

I ought to be better to Him. 



[123] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



THE PRINCESS INGINITA 

A tawny princess, long ago, 

Lived in the " middle Arid Zone" 
And played upon the hills alone ; 

The hills whereon the Cacti blow. 

There came from out the sunny south 

A Spaniard, with a mandolin, 

Who sang and played and played to win, 
And kissed the maiden on the mouth. 

He told her she was beautiful, 

And sang the same song o'er and o'er, 
They kissed again — he sang some more ; 

She made him moccasins of wool. 

Anon he failed his tryst to keep, 
For, after all, she was not fair. 
Her hair was like a horse's hair — 

She had to whip her face to sleep. 

She contemplated suicide, 

But saw, reflected from the stream 
Her mirrored face ; he heard her scream : 

"Cayuse! Cayuse! the Spaniard lied." 



[124] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



THE PASSING OF THE LOCOMOTIVE — A 
REVERIE 

"Ah, well/' said the Iron Horse, heaving a sigh 
That was followed anon by a tear ; 

" They've made me do everything else but fly, 
Since Stephenson sent me here. 

" From killing, an hour for every twelve miles, 
To a hundred and twelve an hour; 

The Yankee redoubles his toil and smiles 
As he doubles my pace and power. 

" When tempests have howled I have gone to the 
front 

The force of the blizzard to check; 
Of countless collisions I've taken the brunt 

And have laid in the ruins a wreck. 

" Now, like the ' old woman,' they say I must 

go, 
And so make a place for the 'new'; 
A mile and a half in a minute's too slow 
For the Yankee. I know what I'll do : 

" I'll go back to England, far over the sea, 
My pace will be swift there, I'm told; 

Tho' the old things of England are new to me, 
The new things of England are old. 

[125] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



" There, a thousand long years are the same as a day, 

And a day as a thousand years. 
There, when an old thing has wasted away, 

Another old thing appears. 

" Adieu to the land of the setting sun, 

Impetuous Yankee, good-by. 
I'll just jog along to the end of my run, 

You put on your pinions and fly." 



BY-AND-BY 

What shall we all be doing, by-and-by? 
There'll be so much of blueing in our sky, 

When we've made an end of Trusting, 

And consequential Busting, 

And Literary Dusting, 
In your eye — by-and-by, 
And Literary Dusting in your eye. 

When the frenzy-freighted bombs have all been 

hurled, 
When the battle-bloody banner has been furled, 
We shall know no more of Trusting 
And Literary Dusting 
When we've Stieffen-Tarbul-Lawsonized the 

world — 
Happy World — 
When we've Stieffen-Tarbul-Lawsonized the 

world. 
[126] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



I WOULD KNOW MY NATIVE LAND 

There are those who praise the poet who can soar 

in starry spheres, 
And can mold his mystic phrases from the 

wrecks of other years. 
I would have my inspiration fresh from Nature's 

open hand; 
I would sing a simple sonnet that a child can 

understand. 

I would walk the verdant valley, where the salt 

waves wash the feet 
Of the Wasatch; gazing upward where the sky 

and mountains meet, 
Filled with awe and admiration I would kneel 

upon the strand, 
And thank heaven for this picture even I can 

understand. 



[1271 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



ON MARSHALL PASS 

Young Yanker came down the hill one day 
And the wind could hardly keep out of his way; 
The air was good, and the brakes were set, 
And he waddled his head with a " you can bet 
That I'm a brave young engineer, 
Never see no thin' that looked like fear." 
And this is the way, the brakemen say, 
When the birds were singing one morning in May, 
Young Yanker came down the mountain. 

The Station Agent flew out at the door 

As the train went by with a rush and a roar, 

Saying, " Young Yanker's exceedingly flip. 

He must be making his maiden trip," 

And then, after showing how fast he could run, 

He'd pull the whistle for brakes for fun. 

And this is the way all summer each day, 

A little too sudden the "soop" would say 

Young Yanker came down the mountain. 

The shack and the stoker would congregate 
And the youthful conductor would then relate 
How the old-time runners would take it slow 
And this daring young driver would let 'em go. 
"Ah, well," said the hoary-haired knight of the 

punch, 
" We'll pick him up some day, all in a bunch." 
And this is the way, all summer each day, 
[128] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



When the fields were fraught with the odor of 

hay, 
Young Yanker came down the mountain. 



Young Yanker came down the hill one day 
His face was white and his hair was gray. 
He shivered and shook as he stood on the deck, 
And the bulk of his breakfast was up in his neck. 
With the speed of a bullet he rounded a curve, 
He wanted to jump, but he hadn't the nerve — 
And this is the way, no cause for delay, 
" Hellity-larupe, " the Brakemen say, 
Young Yanker came down the mountain. 

The trainmen thought he was trying his hand 
'Till he pulled her over and gave her the sand. 
The shack and the stoker flew over the deck 
And the speed of the train were beginning to 

check; 
With the aid of the engine they finished their 

work 
And the cars all came to a stop with a jerk. 
And this is the way, the trainmen say, 
On this sear and serious autumn day, 
Young Yanker came down the mountain. 

Then he traded a lot of his sand for sense 
With a lot of hilarity learned to dispense. 

[129] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



He has no desire the card to exceed 

He takes better care of his fiery steed. 

His face wears a look that's serene and sublime, 

He strikes every station exactly on time. 

And this is the way, the officers say, 

In the darkness of night or the stormiest day 

Young Yanker comes down the mountain. 



PERIOD ! 

If I but could do what I would, 
A pile driver would drop 

On every pesky period 

Within your bloomin' shop. 

Then, later on, when I am gone, 
Have petered out and past, 

I need not dread that period 
'Twixt my first name and last. 



[130] 



SONGS OF CY W AIRMAN 



THE ALL RED INDIAN 

I am an all red Indian, 

A British Columbia Cree; 
I always lay aside my gun 

When I go on a jamboree, 
It is a disgrace to paint your face 

When you ought to be painting the town, 
And here is one to the son-of-a-gun 

Who gets up when the sun goes down. 

The pale-face hike to the lonely pike, 

To the forest undefiled ; 
With their little pack, they're trailing back, 

To the heart of the ancient wild. 
That's not for me ! I'm a timber Cree, 

And I pant for the prairie brown, 
And a midnight run with the son-of-a-gun 

Who gets up when the sun goes down. 

I hate the glare of the chemin de fer, 

And the dusty trail by day; 
But I delight in the lamps of night 

That gleam on the Great White Way. 
I hate the hush of the lonely bush 

And the hills in glacial gown, 
I take my fun with the son-of-a-gun 

Who gets up when the sun goes down. 



[1311 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



It were not wise to civilize 

All of these carmin yaps, 
For some must win the beaver skin 

And some must mind the traps, 
But the sparkling wine for me and mine, 

Or a brew of autumn brown, 
And a midnight run with the son-of-a-gun 

Who gets up when the sun goes down. 



[132] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



THE SUNDOWN SEA 

Have you heard of the sundown sea, love, 

With its blue and golden skies, 
Where the ripples play the livelong day 

And the summer never dies? 
There is health and wealth for you, love, 

There is wealth and health for me, 
There is all that's in the golden west 

On the shore of the sundown sea. 

There's a tear on every thorn, love, 

Of the storm-scarred locust ; there 
Are dripping leaves and icy eaves, 

And a wail on the wintry air. 
There's a song in the frozen rill, love, 

But it's lost to you and me; 
There's a muffled cry in the wind-swept sky, 

Then away to the sundown sea. 

There is frost in your raven hair, love 

Your cheeks are thin and pale 
Your dark eye turns and your spirit yearns 

For a glimpse of the sunset trail. 
I will sing a new song to you, love 

And you'll sing a new song to me, 
And we'll grow young as we journey along 

On the way to the sundown sea. 



[133] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



THE CRY OF A WOUNDED HEART 

Put by your lute — sing not to me 
Of blood-red rose and sunny sky, 
The clouds are come — the roses die 

As my dead heart has died in me ; 

There is no sunny, sundown sea ! 

Sing not to me — sing not to me ! 
There's no East, there is no West, 
There's just a torn place in my breast, 

There's nothing! Only land and sea, 

All one wide waste of misery. 



LOCAL COLOR 

First the baby's bonny eyes caught the color of 

the skies, 
Then his tiny little toes took the color of the 

rose; 
But he never seemed so sweet 'till his pudgy 

little feet 
Ambled out across the lawn and caught the 

color of the street. 



[134] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



IS IT REALLY ANY GOOD? 

You're a Critic, in your attic, 
Up above the dust and din, 
On an essay you're in duty bound to do; 
When your sanctum opens softly 
And a sonneteer comes in, 
Who was never any good to you. 
But the poet smiles serenely, while you're stifling 

a moan, 
For he wants your honest judgment on an effort 

of his own; 
When you tell him that it's rotten and the son- 
neteer has flown — 
Is he really any good to you? 

Were you ever any good to him, William? 

He was never any good, to you; 
You could help him, if you would, 
But you'd scalp him, if you could, 

For he isn't any good, to you. 

You're a Beauty, by the bard 

And by the belted hero wooed, 
Doing nothing, for you've nothing else to do; 
Or, perhaps you're pouring pink tea 
For a pink-a-doodle dude 
Who was never any good, to you. 
When you listen to his lyrics of a diamond in the 
skies, 

[135] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



With a glimmer that is dimmer than the shimmer 

of your eyes, 
When he tells you where his treasure lies — and 
other little lies — 
Is he really any good, to you? 

Was he ever any good, to you, girlie f 

He was never any good, to you; 
You could choose him if you would 
But you'd loose him if you could, 
For he isn't any good, to you. 

You're a Merger, with a hundred 
Million dollars in the bank, 
Up and doing, till there's no one left to do; 
When your ship is on the ocean 
And the oil is in the tank, 
Is it really any good, to you? 
When you're owning all that's ownable between 

the earth and sky, 
Every four-and-twenty hours will another day 

goby; 
When you dare not eat a carrot, lest you double 
up and die, 
Is it really any good, to you? 

It was never any good to me, Rocky; 

Was it ever any good, to you? 
Could you stop it if you would, 
Would you drop it if you could, 

Is it really any good, to you? 
[136] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



You're a Soldier, there's a Sultan, 
On a lonely little isle, 
Doing nothing, for there's nothing else to do; 
When you hail him and the heathen 
Comes to greet you with a smile — 
Is he really any good, to you? 
You approach him with your Bible and your 

bottle and your gun, 
If he doesn't hike he's high-balled, and you'll 

hit him if he run; 
When a dozen weedless widows stand aweeping 
in the sun — 
Are they really any good to you? 

Were you ever any good, to him, Johnnie, 
He was never any good, to you; 

You could win him if you would, 

But you'd skin him if you could, 
For he isn't any good — to you. 



[137] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



AT THE RAINBOW'S TIP 

Under the arch of the curving sky, 

The silent Siwash sits alone, 
Close by the trail of the Pes'la-ki, 

Hearing the low winds wail and moan, 
Wagging his head and wondering why 

The white man comes in a steaming ship 

To search for gold at the rainbow's tip. 

" For what is gold but a yellow stone? 

A part of this worthless waste of hills?" 
The Siwash questions. The sad winds moan, 

But make no answer. A robin trills, 
The long night curtains the Klondyke sky, 

And still they come, ship after ship, 

To search for gold at the rainbow's tip. 



A TOAST 

To woman, source of every curse 
And every comfort man endures, 

You bring relief as well as grief; 
What one has caused another cures. 



[138] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



TO BABY ASLEEP 

God keep you, dearest, while the morning sun 
Lights up the world and the world is bright; 

And then at last, when the day is done, 

God keep you, dearest, through the long, long 
night. 

God keep you, dearest, when the earth is gay 
With singing birds and fields in bloom ; 

When summer's verdure fades away 

God keep you, dearest, through the winter's 
gloom. 

God keep you, dearest, from day to day 
Throughout this life. When I am dumb, 

And when your fair form turns to clay, 
God keep you, dearest, in the life to come. 



[139] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



A REPORTER'S REPORT 

It was sometime in the P. M. of the fall of 
'92, 
I had cashed in the Creede Chronicle — had 
nothing much to do. 
I had seen the man of leisure who was loafing on 
the street, 
Who had every fad and fashion from his head 
down to his feet, 
And this prince was a reporter; so I shined my 
Sunday shoes, 
And went down to do the railroads for the 
Rocky Mountain News. 



Now the city man was Martin from McCullagh's 
Democrat, 
And he glanced above his glasses as I doffed my 
derby hat — 
I had owned a daily paper in the springtime of 
that year 
That had sunk ten thousand dollars; I had 
nothing then to fear. 
I had planned that in the morning I would dally 
with the muse, 
In the P.M. do the railroads for the Rocky 
Mountain News. 



[140] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



"Well, ahem, ahem!" said Martin, clearin' cob- 
webs from his throat, 
While the smoke from his Havana 'round my 
face began to float, 
" I presume that you're in touch with the officials 
here in town, 
Having worked for them; however, I shall 
have to send you down 
To police court"; then he coughed again and 
shed his overshoes, 
"That's included with the railroads on the 
Rocky Mountain News." 

I assured him that the railroads, to my mind, 
would be a snap ; 
I could talk about train orders, and could 
write on lead and lap, 
I could banquet with the president, or if I chose 
could take 
A turn down in the freight yards with the men 
who twist the brake, 
I could hobnob with the fireman while he augered 
out his flues — 
I could surely do the railroads for the Rocky 
Mountain News. 

" We're a little bit short-handed — you will do 
the county courts, 
And this evening after dinner drift around 
among the sports — 

[141] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



There's a prize fight down at Murphy's." Then 
he paused and rubbed his head, 
" That is all I have to say now/' this encyclo- 
pedia said. 
I didn't say a word then, but I thought it beat 
the Jews 
The way they did the railroads on the Rocky 
Mountain News. 

I had buttoned up my overcoat, was headed for 
the stair, 
When the quidnunc's restless fingers wandered 
through his wealth of hair. 
I had reached the elevator when he called me 
back and said : 
"You will have to do the state house for the 
state house man is dead." 
My poor heart sank within me, but I couldn't 
well refuse 
Since it all went with the railroads on the 
Rocky Mountain News. 

"See the concerts at the churches in the early 
eve," he said. 
" Try and do Dean Hart's cathedral where an 
heiress is to wed 
An English dude from Dublin — Freeman won't 
be here to-day. 
You may write about a column on what old- 
timers say 
[142] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



About the San Juan gold excitement — but 
mind, we can't excuse 
Any neglect of the railroads on the Rocky 
Mountain News." 

I was off. For ten long hours through the slush 
and snow and sleet, 
Up the stone steps at the state house, out 
again and down the street, 
Till I paused to feed at midnight — hit the bottle 
till my soup 
Seemed a sea of strange assignments — every 
oyster was a scoop. 
Mused on how the other papers would be bur- 
dened with the blues 
When they read about the railroads in the 
Rocky Mountain News. 

After lunch I wrote my copy, which told how 
the Rio Grand 
Had a good house, and the organ was wide 
open working sand. 
'Twas a cold day for the criminals who proceed 
in wicked ways, 
For they raided all the churches and the dean 
got twenty days. 
The soprano dropped her crown sheet, the police- 
man warped his flues 
Throwing in too much cold water, said the 
Rocky Mountain News. 

[143] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



Big strike on the reservation, all the Navajos 
went out; 
How the toughs had met at Trinity to hear the 
seconds shout, 
All the preachers in their pulpits piling up their 
little piles 
On Jim Corbett. How the ladies down at 
Murphy's blocked the aisles. 



The next day I got a letter that would give a 
man the blues : 
" This is good, but we can't read it." Signed : 
"The Rocky Mountain News!" 

Now I view the proud reporter as he swiftly 
sallies by, 
A botbailed flush upon his cheek, a twinkle in 
his eye. 
He has my sincere sympathy — I do not want 
his place. 
I pine not for his twinkle, nor the flush upon 
his face. 
No matter what inducements, I invariably 
refuse, 
Since the day I did the railroads for the 
Rocky Mountain News. 



[144] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



SUMMER'S GONE 

Summer's gone. Ah, soon the sea 
Will miss my summer love and me. 
The soft sea-waves that used to float 
Around her form and kiss her throat, 
Will sigh and seek the shore, and then 
Flow back into the gulf again. 
The summer's gone. 

Summer's gone. The robin's trill 
Will soon be hushed, and o'er the hill 
The aspen trees, in tints of gold, 
Will shiver in the coming cold; 
But when we part, how sweet 'twill be 
To know that she's in love with me, 
Tho' summer's gone. 



[145] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



THE POET AND THE PUBLISHER 

The uncomplaining Poet lives 
On air and dreams and things; 

With eager ears the world receives 
The happy songs he sings. 

But when the Poet's strength is spent, 

His hands lie on his breast, 
The Poet's heirs get ten per cent — 

The Publisher the rest ! 



THE FIRST CHRISTMAS GIFT 

Of all the precious gifts that daily shower 
From out a gracious Heaven on this ungrateful 
earth, 
Thou gav'st the best, sweet mother, in that hour 
When, by God's will, thou gav'st the Saviour 
birth. 



[146] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



ADOWN THE DUSKY DELL 

Behind the mossy mountain tip 

Sinks the setting sun, 
Aslant the shade the swallows dip, 

The summer day is done. 
The busy brook sings softly, 

Like the tinkling of a bell, 
And still and gray the shadows lay 

Adown the dusky dell. 

Across the silent summit steals 

The melancholy moon, 
And up the vale and vegas comes 

The balmy breath of June. 
Fraught with the sighs of summer, 

Now the softly gentle breeze, 
With tender touch has come to comb 

The tresses of the trees. 



[147] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



MISUNDERSTOOD 

"Poor little ring/' a woman said, 

" Twelve weary years ! twelve to a day 

Since thou wert given, and love is dead; 
He weeps alone, far, far away. 

Ah ! little present, can it be 

I loved him less than he loved me?" 

"Poor withered rose!" a soldier said; 

"Once worn upon my lady's breast; 
She weeps alone where love lies dead, 

And I the truth have never guessed 
Through all these years. Oh! can it be 

I loved her less than she loved me?" 



[148] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



GONE 

Only a dream of you, only a dream, 
All I can claim of you; yet it doth seem 
That we are still sailing the same summer sea, 
And that you are ever and always with me. 

Only a dream of you, born in a day, 
Full-blown and beautiful, fadeless alway; 
Things are not always the things that they 

seem, — 
Spare me this dream of you, — beautiful dream. 

Lift up the face of you, turn not away, 
Bear but a moment and hear what I say, 
When you drift onward, down Life's limpid 

stream, 
Leave me this dream of you, — beautiful dream. 

Waking, I walk with you; slumbering deep 
I dream of you. 0, when I wake from my sleep, 
I grope for you, dear, in the dusk of the dawn 
And find myself sobbing: " She's gone, she is 
gone!" 



[149] 



Cities I Have Seen 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



COLORADO SPRINGS 

Here on the selvedge of the plain, 

Where Pike's lone peak is towering tall; 

Just where the shipless sun-dried main 
Breaks on the rough, resistless wall; 

Beyond a desert sea of sands 

The city that I sing of stands. 

Broad boulevards trend toward the hills, 
Where from the shaded canon springs 

A balm for all our earthly ills; 

And down the verdant valley sings 

The joyous stream, through summer hours, 

Through beds of fern and fields of flowers. 

Above the city soars the lark, 

And wakes the earth with joyous sounds; 
Glad children playing in the park, 

And lovers loitering through the grounds; 
The sighing breeze and honey bees 
Are drifting, droning through the trees. 



[153] 



SONGS OF CY WARM AN 



JERUSALEM 

How cheerless is the wind that sweeps 

The hills of Galilee, 
Where murmurless the Jordan creeps 

Down to the deep Dead Sea. 

O'er barren rocks the dead vines trail, 

And by dead tendrils cling, 
And on the hill and in the vale 

There is no breath of spring. 

The dying glance of Christ the King 
Seems to have stayed and stilled 

The voice of every living thing 
Where Christ the King was killed. 

The brooks, the birds that sang with them, 

Have long since passed away, 
And all about Jerusalem 

The earth is dead to-day. 



[154] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



SALT LAKE 

With awe I watch the sun go down 

Across the great Salt Lake; 
The mountains don their golden crown, 
The soaring seagulls circle 'round, 
The gentle billows break. 

And when I scan what's made for man, 
To make his heart grow glad, 

With wonderment my heart I hush; 

I feel the flush of shame's hot blush, 
Because my soul is sad. 



IN MONTREAL 

The Bobsled to the Motor, 
As it choo-chooed to and fro : 

" Comment ca va, old Honk-honk ; 
How do you like the snow?" 

It rained ! the big red motor 
Was right there on the job: 

"This leaves you on your uppers," 
Said the Motor to the Bob. 



[155] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



CHEYENNE 

Have you been to Cheyenne? 

There's the loneliest place, 
The drearest and searest 

You'll find on the face 
Of the earth. And hard by 

Lieth Laramie town, 

Once a camp of renown 
As the home of Bill Nye. 

Empty bottles and gravel, 

And cactus and cans, 
Broken vows and old hoops 

Freight the hot wind that fans 
The parched plain. Going back 

To the bottle and can — 
I was broke in Cheyenne. 

Years after I sat 

In the manager's car 
As it slipped o'er the steel 

Trail with never a jar, 
And our train orders ran 

Us by way of Cheyenne. 

What a wonderful change 

Had come over the place ! 
Oh, the women were fair. 



[156] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



There was one who had eyes 
Just the hue of the skies; 
And the low winds were soft, 
And the things that we quaffed 
Well, we laid over there. 

"Ah, so much depends," 

I said, with a sigh, 

As the hours flew by, 

" On a friend and his friends. 

Say, Deuel, how can 

We go 'way from Cheyenne?" 



[157] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



CAIRO 

I had banqueted in Berlin, seen a festival in 

Rome, 
Had a midnight lunch in London and a heap o' 

things at home; 
But I never knew what life was 'till I lingered for 

a while 
Where they used to have a harem on the margin 

of the Nile. 

Where the swaying palm and pepper fling their 
fragrance on the air, 

And the moaning camel kneels to take the bur- 
den he must bear, 

Then, rising shakes his silver bells and shuffles 
down the file, 

Where they used to have a harem on the margin 
of the Nile. 

Here dreamy, dark-eyed maidens come to loiter 

in the leaves 
That begirth Gezerich Palace, where, like rain 

from dripping eves, 
Runs the ceaseless song of summer, for the 

heavens seem to smile 
Where they used to have a harem on the margin 

of the Nile. 



[158] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



SAN FRANCISCO, 1894 

There's a band of dusky damsels 

From the Occidental Isles; 
They are wily, wild and wooly, 

But they wear such winsome smiles 
That the high walls of the wigwam 

Fairly echo with delight 
When they do the Hula Hula, 

And they dance it every night. 

With an air of Eve-like innocence 

That time has not effaced, 
They wear no clothes, to speak of, 

Save a reef around the waist 
Made of sea- weeds; beads and bangles 

And their sandals, limp and light, 
When they do the Hula Hula, 

And they dance it every night. 

They're consigned to Colonel Cody; 

They are going to the Fair, 
With their smiles and troubled tresses 

And whatever else they wear. 
They have faded San Francisco, 

And they're sure to hold the host 
If they do the Hula Hula 

As they dance it on the coast. 



[159] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



CREEDE 

Here's a land where all equal — 

Of high or lowly birth — 
A land where men make millions, 

Dug from the dreary earth. 
Here meek and mild-eyed burro's 

On mineral mountains feed. 
It's day all day in the day-time, 

And there is no night in Creede. 

The cliffs are solid silver, 

With wondrous wealth untold, 
And the beds of running rivers 

Are lined with purest gold. 
While the world is filled with sorrow, 

And hearts must break and bleed — 
It's day all day in the day-time, 

And there is no night in Creede. 



[160] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



DENVER 

Denver, sunny Denver, 

I know the skies are clear, 
I know the winds blow gently 

Although the leaves be sear; 
I know the sunlight lingers 

On mountain, hill and plain 
'Round Denver, dear old Denver 

I'm going back again. 

I know the oak and aspen 

Are burning as of old, 
I know the hills are changing 

From summer green to gold; 
The columbine and bluebell 

Are numbered with the slain, 
But Denver, dear old Denver — 

I'm going back again. 



[161] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



IN SAINT PAUL 

If you're ever left alone 

In Saint Paul, 
There's a "conversashiown" 

There for all; 
In the station, overhead, 
When the shades of night have fled 
And the sun is rising red, 

O'er Saint Paul. 

O, they're always going strong 

In Saint Paul, 
Where the victims wait along 

Down the wall; 
You can hear the beardies moan 
As the vocalizers hone 
At the conversashiown, 

In Saint Paul. 

Always, when a barber dies, 

In Saint Paul, 
And his comrades close his eyes, 

Over all 
You can hear the Union shout 
As they pass him up the spout : 
" 'Nother brother has talked out, 

In Saint Paul!" 



[162] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



CRIPPLE CREEK 

Where yesterday 

We picked our way 

'Mong trees where tangled timber lay 

The happy hamlet stands to-day, 

From every hill 

Resounds the drill, 

And where the frost has hushed the rill 

We hear the music of the mill. 

Where fierce and bold 

The red man strolled 

With painted face in days of old 

The hills he touched have turned to gold. 



[163] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



AT JAFFA 

High on the beach the breakers dance, 

For the winds blow hard from the pyramids; 

And over the sea, in sunny France, 
A woman waits with tear-wet lids 

While the waves roll high on the Syrian sand 
And the ships go by, but never land. 

Ah ! cruel waves ; they keep from me 
Sweet messages from one most dear, 

And all I see is the ruffled sea 

With sand-soiled lace. All night I hear 

The waves moan high on the Syrian sand, 
But the ships go by and never land. 

When the sea is high the ships go by, 
When the sea is low there are no ships; 
My heart runs down to my finger tips 

And my hands stretch out o'er the drifted sand 
But the ships go by and never land. 



[164] 



More or Less Personal 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



A TRIBUTE TO DR. DRTJMMOND 

A friend whose lips lie motionless, 

Whose name I breathe, not without pain; 

Yet, what rich gifts he left to us, 
The cheerful children of his brain : 

Leetle Batise, an Dieudonne, 

Dose feller will not pass away ! 

You who have broken bread with him, 
Have lingered, laughing late at night; 

You will know why mine eyes are dim 
With tears that blur the lines I write; 

Dare's won, he's frien', I'm not forget, 

Dat small cure of Calumette. 

Time rolls, and brings us frost and flowers 
Set changes of the changeless years; 

He passed 'mid early April showers 
As tho' the world were moved to tears; 

De Rosignol sing on an' on, 

More sadder now 'cause he is gone. 

He would not have his friends repine, 

He fought and wrought and made a name. 

His work — I'd gladly make it mine, 
Believe, not for wealth or fame, 

But just because he had to go 

And leave it, when he loved it so. 

[167] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



TO A PHOTOGRAPH — B. W. 

Beautiful woman with wondrous hair, 
Beautiful ears half hidden there, 
Beautiful eyes that seem to look 
Into the world as an open book ; 
Beautiful hand with careless grace 
Pillows your perfectly pictured face. 

Beautiful windows of a sweet soul, 
Over you lightly the slow years roll, 
Beautiful heart, so tender and true, 
Drawing the heart o 7 the world to you; 
Wish I were great enough just to stand 
By you, and breath you and touch your hand. 



PAULINE 

I know a woman, 
The light of whose eyes, 
Is like to the wonder 
We see in the skies. 

Whose lips seem to whisper : 
" The rose is dew-pearled, 
God's in His heaven, 
AlPs well with the world." 



[168] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



ROBERT ELLIOT 

We rambled where the river winds 

By an abandoned mill; 
Where forest flowers and northern pines 

The air with fragrance fills. 

A wild rose bloomed beside the trail, 

A bird sang on a limb ; 
He whistled to a whistling quail, 

The bird called back to him. 

God set his soul and turned his song 

And clarion-clear it rang ; 
He walked the woodland, summer long, 

And with the song-birds sang. 

He wandered on across the hill 

Where death's dark shadow creeps; 

The wild rose died, his voice is still, 
And with the flowers he sleeps. 



[169] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



TO MRS. FOR CHARITY 

Dear friend, I should like to write something for 
you, 

But there's so little here in my head; 
And life is so short and there's so much to do, 

And the children are crying for bread; 
There are stories for Munsey, McClure and 

Success, 
The Post, the Companion and others. I guess 
For this time, a failure I'll have to confess, 

For the children are crying for bread. 

'Twere a pleasure to sing for the good of the 
cause, 

(But the children are crying for bread) 
And I know in your house, I'd be sure of applause 

If I knew just the thing to be said; 
For the women are kind as the women are fair, 
And their laughter is lighter than timberline air ; 
If I gave them a song, they would give me a 
prayer, 

But the children are crying for bread. 

You know there are times when you can't do a 
thing, 

When the wheels whirl around in your head ; 
And you must know it's hard for a fellow to sing 

With the children all crying for bread. 
[170] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



Though my lute may be mute, you will pray 

understand, 
I am with you in spirit all over the land, 
And to you and your comrades, I'm kissing my 

hand, 
While the children are crying for bread. 



BILL AND HY 

Hy Ballsome was just one of us — 
Sometimes he's better, sometimes wo'se; 
Sometimes when he'd get hot, he'd cuss - 
But he never got religion. 

Bill Davis said to him: a 'z Hy, 
Where'll you be goin', by an' by; 
You reckon you be fit to die? 
You ain't got no religion!" 

"Bill Davis, I been watchin' you," 
Says Hy, " an' when I learn to do 
To others as they orto do, 
I won't need no religion." 



[171] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



JIU-JITZU VS. HOCKEY 
To T. R. 

If you want to rear a nation 

To be fit for future scraps, 
Cut away this imitation 

That you're taking from the Japs. 
You can never win your battles 

With these monkey-springs and squats — 
To the Highlands and play hockey with the 
Scots. 

"Hoot, mon! Hoot!" says big Macdonald, 
And Mac Williams answers, "Hoot!" 

As he smashes Angus Campbell 
On the apex of his snoot ; 

While the polished floor is freckled 
By a score of crimson spots, 

Ah! you're busy when you hockey with the 
Scots. 

Hear Macpherson's smothered curses 

As his bosom swells with pride, 
And the horses on the hearses 

Paw the atmosphere outside 
With the coroner and undertaker 

Waiting on the spot 
Oh you're strenuous when you hockey with a 

Scot. 
[172] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



FRIENDSHIP 

Doubtless, in dear old London, 

If you were ever there, 
You've looked on Nelson's monument 

Down in Trafalgar Square; 
Our Nelson has a monument 

That higher still extends, 
Stouter than stone, it's builded on 

The friendship of his friends. 

Sometimes this thing called friendship 

Is likened to a tree 
Among whose leaves on Summer eve's 
. The cooling winds blow free; 
It shades the passing pilgrim 

Whose weary way he wends, 
A noble tree, it seems to me — 

The friendship of our friends. 

At other times this friendship 

Is fashioned as a flower, 
Whose sweet perfume pervades the gloom 

Of many a weary hour; 
Our smiles, as so much sunshine, 

Will keep it fresh for years 
If grief should come, in sorrow dumb 

We lave it with our tears. 

[173] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



I like to liken friendship 

Unto the Breath of Morn, 
Fresh from the dewy uplands 

And singing through the corn, 
Or Flora, faring barefoot 

With all her arms can hold ; 
A Peace-flag on the fortress, 

A sunset full of gold. 

And so your friends have fashioned 

A monument so high, 
Its base is hidden in our hearts, 

Its top lost in the sky; 
When, through the years that follow, 

When sun or shower descends, 
One thing is sure and will endure, 

The friendship of your Friends. 



To Nelson E. W. 

From his friends of the 

New England Passenger Association. 

Boston, Massachusetts, 

December 21, 1910. 



[174] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



TO JULIAN RALPH, IN CHINA 

When you drifted down the Pacific 

Across the Atlantic I sped; 
And when you dropped anchor at Hong Kong 

I whistled down brakes at Port Said. 

I came here in quest of the morning, 

The cradle of day to behold; 
You came here in search of the sunset 

'Neath skies ever gilded with gold. 

I swear my trail ends at the morning, 
You say, "Here's the edge of the night" ; 

Then where is the sunrise and sunset? 
What jurist shall judge which is right? 

Go back to the noonland, my brother, 

That holds the half sphere you have known; 

Come let us be frank with each other, 
What land is as fair as our own? 



TO J. W. S. 

Great little man, whose name and fame 

Shall reach from Pole to Pole; 
I wonder how so slight a frame 

Can cage so great a soul. 

[175] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



HIM 

He will come back. The stress of things, 
The Comet and the death of Kings 
Eclipse him for a little space, 
But he'll come back to his own place 
On the front page — The Cracker jack — 
He will come back. 

He will come back again, and lo, 
The Little Ones who think they know 
The inner workings and the tricks 
Of twentieth century politics 
Will take their chapeaux from the rack 
When he comes back. 



HENRY PREW 

A Toast 

Here's to you, Henry Prew, 

Henry Prew, here's to you. 

Happy Henry! May your skies be always blue; 

Kindly, thoughtful, gentle-souled, 

May your joys be manifold, 

And your sunset full of gold, 

Henry Prew. 
[176] 



SONGS OF CY WARMAN 



FATHER J. C. 

I know a man, whom God gives me to know, 
And if I had met with him long years ago, 
When the spirit was strong and the flesh near so 

frail, 
I might not have wandered so far from the trail. 

But now that I know him, and since he knows 

me, 
He'll mark me and mind me, and when I'm at 

sea 
And storms beat against me, he'll watch on the 

strand 
To beckon and beacon me back to the land. 



[177] 



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